Speaking of which, let's move on to the obligatory part of any diary (electronic or otherwise) in which we describe the events of our lives in chronological order to your great interest.
IN WHICH WE VISIT A CIRCUS SQUAT:
Two days ago, Mark was recovering from his 4am jet-lagged crazies. During the day (relatively crazy-free), we met Eduardo, a Barcelona Couch Surfer from the Circus group, at a Metro station and he showed us around La Nave, a circus/dance space nee warehouse. Everything is free there: entry, classes, equipment. Besides us, there were lots of aerialists, a lone juggler, and a little boy who came at the end and stacked up as many mats as he could haul in order to jump off them and do a flip. Pretty cool, all in all. Mark, I'm sure, will want me to mention that we finally practiced standing-on-head while he was standing too. That sentence is confusing. Look at the picture. I'm not fully up in it, but you can get the idea.
IN WHICH WE (ALMOST) GET PICKPOCKETED (Moms can skip this one...):
We headed back to our hotel, showered, rested (SOMEONE may have taken a widdle nap...), and got ready to go out to perform. Instruments in hand and matching shoes securely on feet, we headed to the metro. Our plan was to perform outside Barcelona Music Buskers Festival ,doing short, unamplified, music/finale only shows (in case the policia showed up to bust up our gringo spectacle). While Mark was buying a ticket (using his ATM card – an important point to remember later), I scoped out a youth standing a little too close to us. Immediately, I was suspicious, but then thought, “Is that just because his hair is slicked back? That's discrimination.” Still, I stood with my back to the machine, watching him.
On the metro, he sat with a friend who was carrying a sweater. In Barcelona. In August. Also a point to remember. Like I said, I was watching them. I also watched a Metro policeman watching them...
We got off at our stop. So did they. We walked up to the exit. So did they. On the way up the stairs, one of them tapped my trombone and mimed playing violin. While Mark mimed trombone, I looked behind, and slowed down to make sure I could see what Slicked Hair was doing behind Mark. This is what comes of living in a big city long enough to not trust anyone.
Alas, none of my distrustful Sherlocking wasn't enough to prevent us from getting stuck in a sticky situation. The way outside was through a 2 door turnstile. Everything happened sort of fast, but the end result was all four of us stuck between the 2 doors: Me, Slicked Hair, Mark, Sweater Guy. Clearly, Moms, we realized this was a bad situation. Mark realized this, and looked back to see a hand coming out from under the sweater, reaching towards his back pocket. Mark (with his passionate fake Italian heritage, remember?) knocked the guy's hand away, and we busted outta there. Psh. Amateurs.
IN WHICH WE REALIZE NOT EVERY TOURIST SPEAKS ENGLISH:
Reaching the beach walk a little shook-up but still determined, we scoped out some official bands, then found a spot halfway between two of them. We set up our instruments, did some warm-up kicks, and Mark started to woo walkers. It took about 1 ½ minutes to realize that NO ONE was speaking English. Not the group of giggly girls. Not the probably drunk man. Not the blonde family.
Nevertheless, we persevered. Our jokes may have fallen flat, but our attempts at Spanish were definitely laughable. People were really friendly and supportive, and at the end we made enough to buy two falafel sandwiches + produce for the next few days.
A highlight: While we were crowd-building, a group with a dog walked past. As per usual, we yelled out, “Our dog act!” Usually, this gets a smile. This time, the group let their dog off the leash and sent him over to us. Cuteness and hugs ensued. This dog would run and sit and cuddle anything that could get its face low enough. Mark, seeing the potential, had the dog sit, then lay down between it and me. I lowered my face and called love to it, and, lo and behold, the dog jumped over Mark to run and sit by me. Our dog act!
IN WHICH WE WANDER THE GOTHIC QUARTER AND DISCOVER THAT GOD HATES SHOULDERS:
I think the heading pretty much says it all, but here goes: The next day, we took a tourist break, getting lost in the Gothic Quarter, which is full of narrow alleys and beautiful architecture. We went to a museum that showcases the remains of Roman buildings that lie UNDERNEATH current day Barcelona. Pretty cool. People just kept building on top of older ruins, and now you have an underground fish factory, wine factory, dye/wash house, and defense wall.
We also went into La Catedral, a 14th century Gothic cathedral. Pretty cool. There's a Well of Geese in a center courtyard – official name, I swear. No bare shoulders allowed inside the church, though. God's orders. Some local ladies make millions selling cheap scarves to desperate tank-topped tourists outside the gates.
IN WHICH I WRITE THIS BLOG ENTRY:
We've moved into a new hostel with a nice kitchen. This afternoon, we practiced our show on the lovely roof deck. I'm typing on a netbook. Mark is practicing the Spanish translations we made today of key points in our show. Tomorrow we'll go to see Sagrada Familia, Park Guell, and then go out in the afternoon to perform our show for (hopefully) rich tourists.
Wish us luck! We'll also accept Euros.
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