BARKelona Part Dos

21 Jun

May 24, 2017

“Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Or Florida for that matter!

Later that morning, after checking into the hostel and getting some much needed sleep, Jo and Gma got their first taste of Barcelona living, while at an outside café, by enjoying “pa amb tomàquet” (bread topped with tomato juice, salt, and olive oil), some salad, and a mug of beer the size of an infant.  I shit you not.  The size of a baby.  Jo was in such awe of the liquid gold, she forgot to take a picture of it.  Gma got a nice buzz from the beer.  And I got my first Barcelona taste of…nothing.  I got to lie on my blanket beneath the table like a mere commoner.

FUN FACT:  Jo will not be taking pictures of food and posting them on here (unless it was eyebrow-numbingly tasty and/or weird looking).  She says if she posts food before it goes in, then it’s only fair that she posts food after it comes back out.

Suddenly, we realized it was time for our taxi to pick us up!  Jo and I raced back to the hostel, while Gma pulled a “dine n’ dash.”  Just kidding, she paid. 😉  When Jo and I arrived, the taxi driver had just pulled up.  We hauled paws upstairs to get our luggage, and the lady of the hostel was…well, hostile.  Cussing at us, “mierda” this, “mierda” that.  “The driver can’t wait,” she said.  Ahhh, yes, it looked like we were making our mark on Barcelona already.

After surviving yet another crazy taxi ride (pedestrian on bicycle nearly colliding with taxi included), we arrived at our rental apartment in the L’Eixample district, where we’d be staying for a month (Gma for two weeks).  Jo had found the apartment on Airbnb, hosted by a very warm, very welcoming woman named Marta, who speaks very little English.  Which was perfect!  It gave Jo a chance to practice what little Spanish she could remember from high school.  Let’s just say she remembers a lot of nouns, particularly animals, and not enough verbs.  A bit like a caveman with a fancy accent.

The apartment was cuter than a slice of bread with googly eyes and had everything a pup like me could want:  A cozy bed, a kitchen (so the humans could cook for me), a balcony where I could suntan, a bathroom where I could watch Jo shower, and a blanket that, dare I say, is comfier than my own blanket I demanded Jo bring on this trip.

At night, I lie with this new blanket while the other blanket seethes jealously nearby.

*Breaking in the balcony

 

*View from the balcony, ceiling in apartment lobby, stairwell

After our long, arduous trek, all I wanted to do was eat, do my business, and sleeeep.  But wait a second…as I looked around outside, I discovered there was no grass for me to do my business on.  What fresh hell is this?!  I’m dragged out of my comfy Florida home, shoved into a tin can at 30,000 feet in the air, and now I’m to be expected to relieve myself on a sidewalk??  Somebody call PETA.

As we meandered along, Jo kept telling me to “go potty” and “go poopies,” and I had no idea what to do.  I was always told not to go on the sidewalk.  Then there was all the traffic and the people rushing by, their legs a blur, more dogs than I had ever seen, and the lady who nearly ran me over with her bag on wheels!

I was overwhelmed and had no idea how to navigate all of these obstacles.  I challenge any human out there to take a poop under similar circumstances.  Go on.  Do it.  I’ll wait…

See?  Not so easy, is it?

However, that was the old Penny.  Now I run these streets!  Potty on the sidewalk?  Child’s play.  Heck, I’ll stop abruptly right in front of you to do it, mid stride, so you nearly trip over me.  I’ll even pull a “Hansel and Gretel” and leave gumdrop-sized poops as I trot along.

Now I deftly maneuver amongst humans and bikes alike.  I wasn’t sure what to make of elevators at first.  Now I’m a pro.  Same for the metro stations, although I’m still not fond of the actual ride on the metro.  And I loathe escalators.  Gma says they could swallow me up, so Jo carries me on them.

The day of arrival, we stocked up on groceries at the “supermercat” across the street.  I argued with Jo that it said “Super Meerkat.”  Well, it was indeed super (store downstairs, with actual fresh food market upstairs), but, alas, there were no meerkats, neither for sale nor working there.

Talk about the blind leading the blind…Gma and Jo had no idea you had to weigh your own produce and baked goods in this store.  You slap each item on the scale, pick what item it is on the touch screen, and then it spits out a sticker that you put on the item for the cashier to scan.  Took them awhile to figure that out and included a few funny, awkward exchanges between the locals.

Instead of shopping carts as we know them in the US, there were plastic baskets that could either be hand-held or rolled along on the ground behind you like a wee lil wagon. These tickled me.  It was as if they were loyal pets nipping at their owners’ heels.

There was fresh seafood, jamón, and chorizo as far as the eye could see, homemade pastries and breads, cheeses upon cheeses, and bottles of wine for a mere couple of euros.  Jo and Gma were spoiled by the inexpensive prices, and for days we relaxed in the apartment/on the balcony and feasted on fruits, hunks of baguette and butter, Gouda and swiss, chicken and pasta with olive oil, and white wine.  Jo even made her own version of tapas.

*Uh-oh, looks like Jo broke her “no pics of food” policy

After recuperating from the jet lag, and well on our way to a food-induced coma, we decided to kick this journey off with a wholesome, good ol’-fashioned, family-fun trip to the sex museum!

Up Next:  Museu de l’Erotica