Before heading to MUSE, I used my shoe radar to find Emilie some green fake nike tennis shoes, we went home, changed and got a super gourmet kebab and some delicious sangria, and sipped on our Fanta-vodka cocktails until we arrived at the MUSE concert…where outside of the line the ground was LITERALLY covered with about a foot of trash – empty bottles, full bottles, plastic, glass, what-have-you.
These Europeans sure know how to litter.
Muse was lovely. That guy sure can play the piano. Emilie and I safely rocked our faces off to his lovely lead vocals. I mentioned that he must eat a lot of Power Bars to have so much energy on stage, and yet he must burn it all off – for his is oh so thin! Emilie mentioned he may just be on speed. I will consider this possibility.
I even spoke Spanish at the concert “dos!” to the beer lady right before the band went on. It was at this concert that emilie met her mechanical engineer, one Carlos Casanovas (yes that was his name) – and I will take credit for finding her such a lovely dance partner and escort for the evening, as I told her he was cute when she couldn’t see him. We met Carlos’ sister, Anne, a totally cool Spanish girl, (who he had lost at the concert, which was why he was standing near us) and after dropping her off at a birthday party we went to some crazy multi level dance club that only played like, Franz Ferdinand b-sides, and bands that I would classify as Junior Varsity The Strokes and the like. It was sortof awesome. There were movie screens. There were dudes dancing on blocks. I was like, where is Kanye once again, but I guess the European people aren’t so rhythmically picky.
We drove back, I passed out in the hostel, and Emilie and Carlos took a little Spanish stroll where he told her she “wouldn’t need a hotel” next time she comes to Barcelona, and other such Spanish-english gems like, “I’m so haeeeppy I lost my seee-stir.” All of which Emilie did an excellent job of imitating...I may not remember Carlos sounding like Speedy Gonzales, but I did not go on a Spanish love stroll with him so I cannot pretend to know.
I woke up the next morn to Emilie talking to a couple of juniors from the Alma Mater who she recognized from their Wharton shirts. They’d seen my Penn flip flops, but in true Penn fashion, they chose not to investigate. As Emilie and I are U of P girls (I like call UPenn U of P, b/c its more old-school and the title represents what I (and grandpas who wear plaid newsboy caps, I would imagine) would like to think/remember about dear old Pennsylvania), we stick our necks out for our comanches, be they young, old, not really all that cool, or super awesome. Benjie Frank would be so proud – U of P has taken the globe over indeed. In a nice, community serving way – at least on my part. I’d like to start a Junto when I get back in America and move back to STL or Memphis or NOLA...charleston is too tame. I would like to give stl a shot for a bit and take this Testimo thing to fun places. Hell, who knows.
I digress!
I am very dumb to have forgotten that T’estimo is a catalan word, and I have since found out that my boss’ husband’s family owns a cheese business in Barca! I could’ve been feasting on cheese. Sigh! I did get to see some sights he recommended. Excellent guidance, Xavier.
So right, Sun day Emilie was sortof hangover dead and everything was making her angry, but that did not stop us from wandering around EVERYWHERE until we’d walked off her hangover and had and ice cream (its really good and plentiful in the Barca!) and had found a super authentic bar place where I had seafood stuffed Avocados (magical avocados, I love them) and Emilie had Barcelona sausage that may or may not have been slightly raw. But it was pretty much awesome, and there were people in all their Catalunyan glory, eating strange looking salads, anchovies and of course olives. We tried to be authentic, but the waiter (who didn’t ever usher us to leave, not even 4 hours into some sort of conversation about something – Emilie and I always manage to have something to say to each other) gave us an English menu, so we couldn’t order the mysterious Catalan menu. Maybe it was for the better. It was authentic, so I was happy. There was even a crazy vagrant lady across the street wearing leg-warmers for shoes who would buzz like a bee at passers by. Excellent. We somehow managed to wander to the mayor’s square that we somehow always managed to happen upon at least 2 times a day
Next up, Gaudi park. Emilie got a fanta, and she was happy, though slightly dead.
It was a pretty cool park – one rooftop nearby said something like, “if its tourist season, why can’t we shoot them?” I was like, hey, not cool. I just ate a stuffed artichoke very peacefully at an authentic bar. Don’t hate the tourists. It furthered the creepy vibes of spain in general.
But whatever!
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