My Mind's Ink

I feel apologetic writing about Barcelona. Everyone I talked to loves it. I didn’t have a good time there, sorry.

I met really nice people right off the start. Two Frenchmen in my hostel room introduced themselves, and insisted I come to dinner with them. They had heard of a place just down the block. They pronounced my name with this lifting French accent that was inviting. “Come on Dirk. You must come Dirk. What else? Come on Dirk. We know of a place.” They were great.

So were the rest of the people I met hanging around with them. They were all great people, who spoke French. Tourists from France, or Eastern Canada. The Spanish employees at tourist hubs, like train stations, spoke French as their second language. I don’t have a second language, so I can certainly not fault them for failing to have a third, but it was isolating, and somehow exhausting to be on the edge of understanding for hours at a time.

I followed them to a couple of clubs. Lots of beautiful people and alcoves with strange lighting and modern lounging furniture. Huge haute sterile affairs, lonely places, or so they’ve always felt to me.

I tried to shake my funk with a walk up one of the main plaza streets, a tourist hot spot. Beautiful buildings along a wide tree lined pedestrian area. The space was lovely, the experience was not. Every thirty paces stood a guy blowing a whistle making this rhythmic rolling high pitched sound; a rave kid nightmare. I never did come to understand if they were selling the whistles themselves, or using that as an attraction to sell you something else, although I couldn’t imagine either approach being successful.

The sound chased me from all directions as I weaved through the crowded alley of trinket vendors and buskers. Street performers can be amazing, but these were all modified versions of the “The Statue”, which many of them did well, very imaginative costumes. Still, no magicians, jugglers, singers, musicians, dancers, or acrobats. Just crowds, commerce, “The Statue”, and the whistle sound track. At night this area is patrolled by surprisingly unattractive, yet very aggressive prostitutes. It was all bringing me down, man.

The culmination of the street was a huge square with a fountain at it’s centre, surrounded by stone figures. The sculptures were built to the scale of divinity, set on podiums, so you have to look up to see their beautiful looming feet. The buildings, everything, it all started to feel that way. Like it was built to impress the peasant or the invading army; magnificent and imposing.

I had to resort to an English pub. World Cup was on. I scribbled in my book, met a guy, his bachelor party, and a nice fellow from the Netherlands who worked on a ship that repaired local beaches by moving sand from the bottom of the ocean. The bartender spoke enough English that she qualified as the only resident of Spain I managed to have a conversation with. She was pretty, which was nice, although she recommended the pizza, which was horrible. Not a total loss, the evening was not very Spanish, but it got me back on the upswing.

Still, I had written Barcelona off. I just needed to kill the morning and then it was off to the airport to meet my girl. I undertook one of my aimless wanderings and it led me through this park; it was amazing. The massive fountain built into a sloping hill was beautiful and inviting. Kids splashed in it and small groups wandered the surrounding path which invited you to view it from different angles. And, all the interesting people in the city were here!

I joined those lounging in the sunny grass; couples and kids and families. A few guitars and frisbees, jugglers, some tight rope walkers practicing in the trees, yoga, a guy manipulating glass spheres, hula hoops, and two young men struggling with a hand to hand stunt. Hey! I know that one, but the language barrier kept me from telling them. Men threaded their way though the crowds quietly offering cold cheap beer they sold out of plastic grocery bags. It was my sort of place, the antithesis of the touristy plaza. So I lingered, and came around to think that maybe Barcelona and I had a future together after all.

When I arrived in the city, on my way in from the airport, every time I stepped off a train the next train was right there, it was a journey of green lights. It was the experience I used to time my trip back to pick up my girl, which was filled with red lights. I was late, but just a little.

Wait, what! Terminal 2, there’s a Terminal 2! Fuck. How do I get there!? Another train! Fuck. And so, I am running, sweaty, stressed out, and an hour late, when I see her, looking worried, exhausted, and so tiny with her backpack on.

She sees me, and bursts into tears. When we pull back from our embrace I say, “I love you. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” It’s nothing personal, it was just timing, and my heart was somewhere else. It wasn’t you Barcelona, it was me.

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If you’re looking for adventure, don’t hide in a corner, sit at the bar.

I had a great time in Brussels and it all stemmed from stepping up to a bar and showing an interest in the local beers, which Belgians are passionate about. When asked for my order at a restaurant or bar, my most common response, when I can make myself understood, is, “What do you recommend?” It’s an approach that produces more than its share of disappointments, but you can’t discover hidden gems on your own.

The place I was in, Celtica, has a good selection of draft beer, it’s ridiculously cheap, and they serve it, and little else, by the bucketful. The next night a customer ordered a mojito, and Alex, the Irish bartender I was about to meet, screwed up his face into a disgusted grimace, and yelled across the bar, “Are you fuck’n serious!?”

On this particular evening though, Alex was on my side of the bar, and when I asked for a recommendation, he piped up at my elbow and ordered for me. I spoke to Alex until the education he was giving me on Irish whisky caught up to him and he had to go home, but before he did he introduced me to Margret, also an off duty bartender at Celtica, the second of four I would eventually meet.

Margret is a straight forward and honest Londoner. About 5′9″, slim, fair skin, dreadlocks, an eyebrow piercing and dark eye makeup turned up a little into a cat’s eye at the edges. She told me she worked the upstairs bar during the recent St. Patty’s day. The upstairs bar in Celtica is just a small ell shaped counter set in the middle of what becomes a crowded scrum on busy nights. The bartender is not cordoned off, people surround on all sides. It’s a ripe atmosphere for drunken louts to make a grab at breasts and asses, so female bartenders are not assigned to this role, except Margret, who requests it. She likes mixing it up with the people, and tells me anyone who grabs her ass doesn’t do it twice, she enjoys throwing elbows. She describes St. Patty’s day with pride, like someone who has stepped into the fray and come out victorious. I liked her a lot.

She invited me over for beers with her and her flatmates the following afternoon. She shares a small apartment with her boyfriend of three and a half years. They were splitting up, so it was an invitation I was somewhat hesitant to show up for. I’m glad I did, all the people I met through Margret, including her boyfriend, were welcoming, generous, and fun.

The two of them told me lots of stories from their own travels, including living in the middle of a dry¹ aborigine village in the Australian outback. I also got their thoughts on Brussels, Belgium, beer, and bus fairs. None of the locals pay that last one, there is a healthy underground economy going on in the European Union, I observed.

I went out drinking later with Margret and her funny friend Greg, another Irishman. We ended the evening at Margret’s for a few sensible cocktails before turning in. Greg put a stop to my plans to walk home. He insisted I “didn’t know Brussels for shit” and that we should share a cab. Fifteen minutes later he lifted his nodding head and observed the cab was not heading toward his house. In his Irish accent, made so much thicker with drink, he yelled, “Hey! Where the fuck’r we going?” Then he turned and looked at me, “Who the fuck’r you!”

I told him my name in the most reassuring tone I could muster, and informed him of the plan we had to drop me off before he headed home. I was prepared to provide additional proof of our time together, but this was sufficient, reality and Greg were now friends again. He just said, “Oh. Right. OK,” and slumped back into his seat. Minutes later we shook hands and parted ways as friends.

Brussels houses the headquarters for the European Union and consequently is home to more languages per square block than I encountered anywhere else in my travels. Many of the cities residents are transplants from somewhere else, or tourists. Standing in a local bar I heard German, Russian, French, English, and I think, Ukrainian just from the people that stepped up to order a beer. It’s an eclectic mix that makes for an interesting atmosphere, and it is this, more than any sightseeing there is, that makes Brussels a place to visit.

Brussels is known for its “frites”. I don’t get the big deal. A fried potato tastes the same in Canada as it does in Belgium. A rainbow of sauces are available as an accompaniment, maybe that’s what everyone is so worked up over.

You can still smoke in bars and restaurants in Brussels, the only such place remaining in Europe, and people take full advantage. Perhaps no one has mentioned this to you yet Europe, but smoking is bad for you. Just FYI. Cigarette butts in the streets are prevalent everywhere I went in Europe but this city dominates. It also excels at honking drivers and beggars with infants and small children, something I hadn’t see before.

The Manneken Pis, smaller than you'd think.

There are some beautiful elements to the city, most of which can be explored on foot in a day. My suggestion is to stop at the famous fountain of the little boy peeing and buy a box of Belgian chocolates at one of the shops you can see from where you are. Gourmet Belgian chocolate is dirt cheap by Canadian standards, and it’s amazing. It compares to the first time I had a girl’s nipple in my mouth. Sample your box of chocolates in front of the fountain, and see how many you can eat before one of the tourists in front of the fountain says, “It’s smaller than I thought it would be.” You won’t get to eat very many.

Footnotes

1. alcohol free [↩]

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Marseille is the oldest, and second largest city in France. It’s history and development has been dominated by it’s function as a key port town. Known for it’s multicultural population and with such a lengthy history of growth, decline, and rebuilding Marseille is a Frankenstein mix of culture, architecture, and inhabitants. It’s difficult to define a particular personality to the place. There is beauty here, and some interesting areas, but there is also ugliness, which is less hard to find. I liked Marseille, but i don’t know I could love it. I would pick a different, smaller city to explore on the Southern coast of France the next time around.

There are some beautiful parks, monuments, coastal scenery, and commanding views, spread out over a diverse geography, which makes this city particularly difficult to explore on foot, although I wouldn’t recommend a car. The streets are narrow, winding, and filled with fearless, noisy drivers who park and drive wherever a car will fit. The streets are also home to a significant amount of blowing garbage and dog shit, and enough dog shit on your sidewalks to make note of is not an attractive quality. The central harbour area is the busiest tourist area, but as an advertised highlight, it was disappointing. I had good experience with the food at a small local restaurant along the water, and a great cheese shop with a friendly and helpful owner.

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I decided to wrap up 18 months of unemployment with a month long vacation to Europe, because that’s how I roll. I had a brief window before a new job became my life and it seemed like a good opportunity to finally take the trip I’ve been finding practical reasons to put off since high school. So, I went to Brussels, Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague, Barcelona, Marseille, Lyon, Bordeaux, and Paris. The trip produced some good stories, which I’ll tell here.

First, a note to my family and friends. I love you all but I didn’t listen to your tips and recommendations. Partly because most of it I could read on the front page of a tourism website. “Go see the Louvre,” is hardly an insiders tip. Mostly though, I didn’t want to go on your trip, I wanted my own. And, in my opinion, the best parts of life, or travel, are not reproducible. I can’t have the same experience by standing on the same spot as you, and taking the same picture you did. So, I’m sorry, the promise you extracted from me to find that little cafe you loved was entirely empty, I had no intention of doing any such thing. I was just indulging you while you told your story, and I now ask the same of you as I tell mine.

I thought I would write them, not in the order I visited, but in a “top ten list” approach, ending with Prague, which I loved the most, and which definitely produced the most interesting tales, including a sad story about a death, and a funny story involving great boobs. None of my writing will involve recommendations for museums or cafes, in that respect you are on your own.

9. Marseille – Dog shit. That’s the key reason Marseille is on the bottom of this list. A nice enough city, a little difficult to explore on foot, and while you do, you have to keep your eyes open for dog shit. It’s not like the place is over run by the stuff, but there’s enough dog shit to take note of, sort of like this introductory paragraph, and friends, that’s too much.

8. Brussels – They take their beer seriously in Belgium. I was standing in a bar and a customer ordered a mojito. The bartender screwed up his face into a disgusted grimace and yelled back, “Are you fuck’n serious!?”

7. Amsterdam – My random wanderings planted me at a bar with a rainbow of beautiful people. I thought maybe they were shooting a United Colors of Benetton Ad. I finished my beer and got out before someone saw me and started to point and laugh.

6. Barcelona – She sees me, and bursts into tears. When we pull back from our embrace I say, “I love you. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” It’s nothing personal, it was just timing, and my heart was somewhere else. It wasn’t you Barcelona, it was me.

5. Paris

4. Berlin

3. Lyon

2. Bordeaux

1. Prague

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