Until discovering Semester at Sea, I had always dreamed of studying in Barcelona. Something about the idea of the city just drew me in, and the moment I got off the ship on October 20th, I knew the city would not disappoint. Rose (you may remember her from Dublin) and I took a free walking tour that first day, and immediately agreed that we were in love. I loved the winding roads, the unique stores that reminded me so much of Wicker Park, and the massive Cathedrals and we somehow always ended up stumbling upon. We were in love with tapas and sangria and the passion that was in the city. Everyone has heard about the Scotland debacle, but until now, I hadn’t heard much of Cataluña. Barcelona and the surrounding area are entirely different from the rest of Spain. They have their own language, their own flag, and their own customs. Their history is rich and their passion can be seen everywhere you look-flags littered the windowsills and almost everything we read was in Catalan, not Spanish. They passed a referendum by a huge margin, and sent it on over to Madrid. Madrid laughed at it and discarded it… but that’s not the end. They’ll be voting again soon, and I can’t wait to see what ends up happening.
We took a tapas tour the first night and met travelers from around the world. Rose and I were joined by only one other American, a 28 year old from LA who worked for Showtime. I told him I lived in Chicago and that I loved Shameless and then was forced to spend quite some time explaining that the South Side of Chicago is very, very different than where I live. We met quite a few characters that night, but the most memorable one is the one that Rose and I have dubbed “Canadian Wiz Khalifa.” Though he insists that he is from Montreal, I call bullshit. I’m convinced he’s not Canadian as he A) Didn’t know anything about hockey. I mean nothing. And B) He was violent. I know it’s a stereotype that Canadians are all nice and pleasant, eh, but I buy into it. This guy, who is now 24, proclaimed with great enthusiasm that he was “CRAZZZZY” when he was our age. At one point, after telling us how crazy he was at our age, Rose raised an eyebrow and went “Oh, you mean yesterday?” He didn’t pick up on the joke and continued to tell us how he put a cigarette out in someone’s eye once. Excuse me? This is when we took our leave. Chalk him up as an oddball.
The next day I walked around the market with a few friends and then headed to the beach. As much as I loved the beach, relaxing was absolutely impossible. Every 2 and a half seconds, someone would come up and ask if you wanted a massage, a mojito, hair braiding, or a tapestry. I’m sure it sounds like I’m exaggerating and surely it couldn’t have been that constant, but I assure that I am not. I actually had nightmares that night that people were chasing me screaming “MA-SAH-HEY!!” “MOJITO!” “HENNNNNNNNNA?!?” Traumatizing, I tell you.
After the beach, we headed to the ship. I stopped along the way in a little supermarket and picked up a jersey for the FC Barca game that we were going to that night. The sticker said 50 euros, I accidently laughed at the man, told my friend that I couldn’t spend more than 25. Moving towards the door, he called me back and I am now the proud owner of an FC Barca Messi jersey. Considering how stingy I’ve been with my souvenir purchases, I feel just fine about getting this one.
Decked out in our new jerseys and buzzing with excitement, 300 Semester at Sea students and faculty boarded the busses and began the drive towards Camp Nu, the largest European stadium, seating almost 100,000 people. Walking in, we double checked out tickets. Then triple checked. Our tickets indicated that we were essentially front row, and Semester at Sea is notoriously cheap, so it took a long time to convince ourselves that we were, in fact, sitting front row at one of the most amazing sporting events in Europe. Basically, in the hierarchy of importance in Barcelona, religion and futbol are at the top, and open equal. The FC Barca team is actually owned by its fans, and you can tell that the city loves that team.
So the home team took home the win over AJAX, 3-1. We enjoyed a hotdog, on a baguette instead of a bun, and laughed at the amount of nonalcoholic beer that people bought. I hate to admit this, as I don’t want it to seem like I didn’t love every minute at Camp Nu, but something about it reminded me just how much I miss hockey games at the Madhouse. Looking around and seeing the amount of fathers that had brought their kids made my stomach ball up just a little bit. I’m not a kid anymore, I know that. But if there’s one thing that I’ll never be too old for, it’s hockey games with Kevin. As much as I wish I was on Madison street, enjoying a beer with the man who taught me everything I know and love about the sport, the futbol game also made me miss lazy Sunday afternoons, watching (and rewinding to rewatch) Hawks games while enjoying a plate of nachos that Mom made. As wonderful as the FC Barca game was, I spent a good chunk of time wishing they’d break out in a fight or someone would get checked into the glass. I’ve been doing well, all things considered, at keeping my homesickness at bay, but all night, while sitting in my Messi jersey and cheering with 100,000 other people, I had a knot in my stomach that reminded me of how terribly I miss the comfort of home, and more specifically, wearing red and cheering for my favorite team with one of my favorite people on the planet. And my dog. The knot untied quickly later in the night, but just remembering it now, I realize how much I miss certain pieces of my life.
At the end of the night, Rose and I were ready to celebrate and experience the famous Barcelona night life. Unfortunately, the stars were not aligned for us that night and after being wrangled into a two hour dinner with strangers that ended at 1, we were too beat to even try to rally. The college-drunk debauchery would have to wait.
The next day consisted of a walk through a few more major tourist attractions, another reminder of how beautiful the city is, and a few more exquisite tapas. Kelsey, my wonderful roommate, had her dad visiting her and they were kind enough to invite me to dinner. Yet again, wonderful food and wonderful wine and wonderful company. It was amazing to see Kelsey with her dad, as I know she’s been battling extreme homesickness for a while now, too. I’d be lying if I said that the dinner wasn’t sad for me, too. Understandably, jealousy balled up in the pit of my chest. In no way hostile, my little green monster shook its angry head all through dinner, constantly wishing I had my own father to wrap his arm around my side and make a few jokes (at my expense, sure.) and talk candidly about the rest of my life back home. But for the time being, I adopted Mr. Barlow and he adopted me. I thanked him for the dinner, and for bringing me a backpack full of goodies that my angel of a mother sent him to bring to me. As if she had known exactly how I would’ve felt on that day, the first thing in my backpack was a nice, crisp, hat. Red and white and black all over, with the Indian Head planted in the middle. Even though it was just a hat, it was everything I had so desperately needed on that day.
Dinner wrapped up around 10:30, and I promptly got into a cab and headed back to the ship. Determined to experience the nightlife, Rose and I were not about to end the night. Since clubs in Europe don’t get busy until 2am, we had time. We went to a bar that specialized in shots and ordered what will go down in history as the coolest shots known to man. Granted, I’m sure there wasn’t too much alcohol in them, as they were 2 euro each, but they were still amazing. One of our favorite, the Boy Scout Shot, involved the bartending lighting the bar on fire, handing us marshmallows and a shot. We toasted a marshmallow and used it to chase the alcohol. We also tried a few shots that he started on fire and sparked for a few minutes before simmering to a gentle flame. We spent a few too many euros at this bar, but finally decided that we should stop paying for sugar and a side of alcohol.
We moved on to the first club, where we forgot what “guest list” we were on and were instructed to pay the 10 euro cover. We laughed and left the line, only to remember the name and get back in the line. The giant, African American, bald bouncer screamed at us and we retreated, tails between legs and slightly scared. We hopped in a cab and heading to Opium, a club on the beach. Arriving, we realized we were entirely too sober, and it was already 2am. Learning from our mistake, we had gotten the name to say at the door from one of Rose’s friends who studied abroad in Barca. Preparing to proudly tell the bouncer that we were on “Ashee’s List”, we were interrupted by some guy who stormed to the front of the line, chatted with the bouncer, and let his friends in while he lingered. When their conversation died, the bouncer turned his attention to Rose, who said the name confidently. At this moment, the bouncer turned to the guy he had just talked at and said the last thing I expected. “Ashee, they with you?” I 100% expected Ashee to be a fake name, and here he was standing in front of us, judging us and silently deciding if we were worthy of his list. Finally he shrugs and waves his hand. In we went.
Now, I struggled when deciding exactly what to include in this blog. After all, this is the internet. Most of you know me pretty well. You’re well aware that “Responsibility” is my middle name. I’m, more often than not, the “mom” of the group when we go out. I’ve never blacked out, and the last time I was sick from drinking was the summer after senior year, when me and 4 of my best friends had a few too many beers while playing cards. I had handed my car keys in and shut my phone off and taken all of the steps to ensure that I was safe and responsible while intoxicated. Responsible. So I don’t want people to think that I’m irresponsible, but at the same time, all of you were my age once, or will be my age someday. And I made a promise when I started this blog to tell it all; the good, the bad, and the ugly. I promised to speak candidly and to hold back nothing. So I’ve decided to include most of the happenings of the night, if only because I firmly believe that they’ll provide a good laugh. Some of these are actually copy and pasted from emails to friends, to keep the candid-ness that I’m going for (and to save me some time.) If you prefer not to hear anything about me being a complete idiot, I suggest you stop reading and just take my word for it- I was stupid.
So, to set the scene: It’s around 2am and Rose and I are sober. We’re also 20 year old college girls so we know that it is possible to get free drinks, however I was not remotely intoxicated enough to flirt around and mooch. Yet. So we buzzed around the club, trying to decide on a plan of action. Finally, we came to terms that this was our last night in Europe. We had been planning on going out since we got off the ship that Monday. So we accepted that fact that tequila shots were 5 euros, and we accepted the fact that this was going to be an expensive night. (But not too expensive because I had only brought enough cash to get a few drinks and a few cabs. Thankfully I left my cards at home.) So we gave in and ordered 4 tequila shots. Each. We threw them back like champs and I immediately realized that I was totally screwed for this night. We gave each other a massive high five, buzzed around the dance floor for a few more minutes, and let the alcohol sink in. After 20 minutes of this, we were feeling on top of the world, and consequently, decided that more alcohol was necessary. So we ordered vodka redbulls, which were just two shots of vodka with a can of redbull. Somehow, we are invited into the VIP section near the stage, clearly crashing some sort of intimate birthday party. We thank them for including us by stealing vodka shots every chance we got and readily accepting all the vodka sprites they could offer us. It was, based on my drunken texts to Chicago, around 3:17 when I lose all memory. I lost a lot of dignity, too, but nothing that I can’t laugh over today & nothing I wouldn’t tell people if they asked. But until you ask, I’ll keep some of the night’s events a secret. I think we got home around 6:30. I only know this because I vaguely remember being pissed that we were only 30 minutes away from breakfast starting, but we needed food ASAP. Ugh the struggles of having drunchies on a ship. *dramatic sigh*
The real story comes in the morning.
So I woke up at like 11, with 0 recollection of anything after around 3am, and opened my groggy eyes to find-
1. A full thing of nutter butter cookies. Only two eaten, one half eaten. 50 left. I don’t even LIKE nutter butters, which is made even more clear by the fact that I only ate two and I was pretty much blacked out.
2. Myself still in my dress, which had long sleeves. But magically I had taken my bra off. How? I literally must have taken the dress off… then the bra off… then put the dress back on. Though this is a habit of mine after drinking. I often wake up to find myself in my pajama pants, but with my shoes from the night before still on.
3. Rose in my roommate’s bed. Why? She lives 2.5 seconds away. Not exaggerating. She lives down the hall. It actually took more effort for her to walk to my room, considering we had to walked past her room.
4. A full, GIANT, unopened water. Praise the Lord. At least I did something smart. Let’s ignore the fact that this water is $6 and I had a full Nalgene of water already…..
5. Pringles. Hot and spicy Pringles. Again, why? Keep in mind that food from the snack bar on this ship is at least twice the price of what it should be. (Gummy bears are $3) I easily must’ve spent 10-15 bucks. ON STUFF THAT I DONT LIKE.
6. A sweatshirt. Not mine. Not Rose’s. It has a note on it that says “Darius-Rachel wants her shoes back.” Darius is a guy on the ship that I’m sort of friends with. He left in Barcelona though, so I’m just keeping the sweatshirt. I vaguely remember stealing it from outside someone’s door. Can I add “thief” to my resume now?
Also, for those of you who don’t know, it is entirely not okay to get on the ship while heavily intoxicated. They have the right to “drunk tank” you, which is pricey, embarrassing, and overall awful. You’re put in an observation room with white walls and no clock. There’s no talking, no sleeping, and generally a terrible time. You also have your home school and parents notified and you’re punished with a fine and “dock time”, which prevents you from being allowed off the ship for a certain amount of time when we arrive at our next port. So essentially, being drunk tanked is the thing most feared by any respectable Semester at Sea student. But it’s also entirely at the discretion of security. So as long as you aren’t a belligerent asshole to them, I’ve always insisted that you’d be fine. For better or for worse, I apparently got to prove my own point, as I have no recollection at all of security.
So far you’re probably thinking “holy shit, you’re embarrassing.” Oh no. You have no idea. The best is yet to come.
So 11am, I’m still very much so drunk. We have lunch on the ship and I feel on top of the world! 12pm, still drunk. We walk to the beach, 1pm rolls around and I’m starting to feel like death. 2pm hits. RIP ANDI. Around 1:45 I made a comment to Rose about how surprised I am that neither of us puked, considering I’m straight missing like 4 hours of my life and the part that I do remember involved an obscene amount of alcohol.
So 2pm, 15 minutes after that comment, I flip onto my back…. And my mouth starts watering. Not the good “ooooh that crepe smells so good, I’m hungry” type of watering. The bitter, “I’m about to unleash hell onto this Earth” type of watering. I swallow and just ignore it. Finally, I go “uhhh… Rose, I think I’m going to puke.” She tells me to go into the ocean, but the mental image of me running into the ocean and vomiting wasn’t appealing. Apparently I wasn’t considering that other options, because nothing at all about puking is appealing. So I continue trying to swallow it down and ignore it……. Long story short, I puke in my mouth a few times, hoping, praying, I can contain it… Silly me.
Finally, when I couldn’t hold it any longer, I nonchalantly turned my head, leaned toward the sand, and, I say this with a mixture of pride and disgust, VOMITED ON THE BEACH. INTO THE SAND. SO CASUALLY THAT I DONT EVEN THINK ANYONE NOTICED. I then covered my vomit with sand and scooted my towel and went back to tanning. Rose, who was tanning approx. 1 foot from me, took out her headphones, raised her eyebrows, and asked (with a terrible mixture of apprehension, disbelief, and horror) “…Did you just….. puke…. On the beach?” But whatever, I felt much better after that. I’m both embarrassed that I PUKED ON THE BEACH and proud that I did it so casually that no one realized it happened. I looked around and seriously no one on the entire beach was even giving me a second thought. Miracles do happen.
Now here I sit, fondly remembering one of the lowest, and to use a term that I hate, most ratchet moments of my life. Part of me screamed that writing this would be incredibly stupid; my grandparents read this blog!! What will they think?! Then I remembered that my grandparents were both young once. And if I can’t laugh at myself for puking on a beach in Barcelona, then I need to reevaluate my life. Plus, I was once known as a “fun sponge.”- the girl who doesn’t know how to be wild and crazy. And as long as I promise this won’t be a reoccurring theme, I think I can venture so far as to assume that even my mom would high five me. She’d lecture me, there’s no doubt about that. But she would give me a discreet little smile and tell me that she was glad I had fun.
And regardless of how embarrassing or stupid or totally reckless that night and the events following it were, it was fun. And I don’t regret a single minute.
Now, after 90 wonderful days in Europe, I’m on the ship for the next 14 straight days heading to Brazil, which will give me time to reflect on my life decisions. Too much time, in fact. So please entertain me. Adriana.kille.fa14 If you want to hear the few parts that were edited out of this story, feel free to ask. If you want to tell me what you ate for lunch, feel free to tell me. If you want to tell me how absolutely terrible the weather is back home, let me know! However, I won’t be able to relate to that last one; I spent 4 hours today tanning on the top deck and reading a book. If it makes you feel better, it’s midterms, so I sometimes study while I tan. I live a hard life here in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
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