But Barcelona, I wanted to like you so bad!

When I arrived in Barcelona, I was disappointed to check my email and find that none of the 10 couch surfers I had emailed had offered me a couch to stay on. This left me in the predicament of trying to find an alternative place to sleep. I was not keen on the idea of sleeping in a park or on a beach as I have heard many stories of friends being robbed in Spain in these sort of situations. I even read on a website for hitchhikers that the only safe way to sleep on the beach with a bag is to bury it and sleep on top of it.

The cheapest hostel I could find was 17.50 euros, and as soon as I got in I wanted to leave. First of all, I felt older than everyone. And this was the most square and clean cut hostel I have ever been to. Everyone looked so innocent. These were not the unkempt hairy hippies and volunteers in Kolkata, or the wild partiers in Mexico City. Just some fresh-faced young Europeans on holiday here to see the sites. Not that there is anything wrong with this of course, but I just couldn’t relate to them. For example, one guy that had been to Morocco recommended that I go to Marrakech because “they have this really big market where you can go and get your picture taken with big snakes and snake charmers”. Do I sound like a hater? Maybe, but this was just a big change of pace from the hitch hiking and couch surfing that had gone over so well so far. I felt like I had no chance of seeing Barcelona in a way other than however tourists see it. Either way, it didn’t matter too much as I was really just trying to get to Morocco, and Barcelona was a convenient place for this.

My first task that afternoon was to go to the port and investigate the ferry that would be leaving the next morning at 10:00 for Tangiers Morocco, and how possible it would be to hitch a ride with a truck driver that would be crossing. A ticket would cost 70 Euros, which was far cheaper than expected, but hitching a ride for free was of course more ideal. I went to the parking lot where the truck drivers get ready to load. I met a driver that does a route between Italian ports and Barcelona. He said that hitching a ride like I wanted is no longer a possibility as most companies have specifically forbidden it. There is a lot of risk in taking a stranger across a border, because you don’t know whom they are and what they are carrying. This was crushing. Now I would either have to buy a boat ticket or fly. It looked like I could get a 27 Euro flight to Casablanca for Saturday night, which sounded like a good idea, as I would probably hear from one of the couch surfers by the next day, and even if not, I had been told by one of the couch surfers that they could have me on Friday, but not sooner than this. So the next day, I booked the plane ticket and checked out of the hostel, as the only space they had for this night was a 22 Euro bed, and I just won’t that. I still hadn’t heard from any couch surfers though, so I walked to the nearest plaza to sit and contemplate my move. And then an odd thing happened.

I was sitting with my backpack at my feet, and a small bag next to me. The small bag, which I was carrying outside my bag for the first day today because I had bought a few groceries, contained some pork pate, pita bread, saucisson, the book I had just started and a beginner’s Arabic book. As I was looking at the map of Barcelona, a guy came and sat on the next bench. After a minute he turns and asks me (in English), “Do you know where….is?” I didn’t understand what he said, plus I always prefer to speak Spanish in simple interactions like this. “Como?” “Do you know where l’hospital is?” “Oh, no,” I said. He waited for another minute, then got up and walked away quickly. I thought, why would somebody ask me where the hospital is, not get an answer, then just leave abruptly, when there was an obviously local person on the bench on his other side? I should have realized sooner, but I didn’t. He was just a distraction, and it was a few minutes before I realized my small bag was gone. I panicked, as it all came together in my mind, and I was trying to figure out what had been in there. It was not long before I realized it was nothing of significant value, which I think is what allowed me to not have guarded it very well. I have always felt proud of myself for being able to avoid this kind of petty theft while abroad, because it seems that for how common it is, it just takes a little bit of awareness to protect yourself. Did I just never expect this to happen in Europe? I don’t know, but as embarrassing as this is for me, it is probably a good wakeup call for the next leg of my trip, though I don’t think this kind of trickery and petty theft will be my biggest worry in sub-saharan Africa…not so sure about Morocco.

After giving up on the couch surfing, I had to find a new hostel, as I still wasn’t ready to go homeless in Barcelona. The only place I could find was 18 euros, and considerably more basic than the previous hostel. It was more on par with a hostel in Mexico in it’s quality and cleanliness, which I don’t mind, but it was still 18 euros. It was more than the previous place which even included breakfast. Just for fun, I read the reviews of it online, and out of 12 reviews, it had 11 1-star ratings. I was the only guest there that night, and it was awkward to say the least. The next morning, I was all packed up by 11AM for check out, but I was still on my computer finishing a couple things, when the manager came in telling me in an irritated voice that check out is 11 and I need to get out. It seemed so ludicrous! Because they were so overwhelmed that they needed to get my bed made for all the tourists breaking down the door to stay here. This place only exists because other hostels get full and this is the only option.

Most of my time in Barcelona was spent attached to my backpack because I was waiting for responses from couch surfers. This led me to do very little exploration, which is a shame as it seems like an awesome city. One notable thing was on a recommendation from Marty. It was the Xampaneria or something like that in Catalunya. When looking up its location on the internet, I saw that it was called a tourist trap in reviews, but I heard almost entirely Spanish and Catalunya while there. Basically it is a rustic tapas bar that specializes in hams, sausages, salamis, served as a bocadillo (sandwich) or sliced on plates to share. And to drink? Pink champagne made on site! They also have white champagne, but nobody really orders that. It was so baller. I had chorizo bocadillo, a Roquefort and sobresada (sp?) bocadillo (ridiculously off the chain) and two glasses of champagne with a bill of 6 euros. 1 whole bottle of champagne is $3, though I wasn’t going to do that alone. It was crowded and bottles were being pizzopped everywhere you lizzooked. I had to return a second time, and this time I got pernil and cheese (not sure what pernil is, ham from the leg maybe?) bocadillo and a chorizo del pais bocadillo, and 2 glasses of champagne. If I lived in Barcelona, I really would go there every day and die of pork.

On Friday I spent my day wandering a few different neighborhoods, with no particular purpose. I was mostly waiting to hear from a couch surfer that said they could host me on Friday. Well, it was Friday, and they never sent me their phone number or address, despite sending them several emails. And I would not pay for a room this night. I couldn’t. I felt like 4 days in Spain was going to cost me as much as 3 weeks in France because of these hostels.

I spent 2 Euros to check my backpack into a storage locker at the first hostel that I stayed in, though they didn’t want to let me because I wasn’t a current guest. The plan was to stay out all night or sleep on the beach, as I had almost no cash or valuables on me.

That evening I met a guy named Ibrahim, from Senegal. He was very friendly and only spoke French. We chatted for a while in the plaza where my bag had been stolen, and I was surprised to find that he had only been in Europe for 2 weeks. He is in Spain because this is where his friends live. He has been looking for any kind of work but hasn’t found anything. We seemed to be getting along well, so I offered to buy some beer, as it seemed what everyone else was doing all around us. By 11:00 the plaza was littered with groups of people our age just hanging out, drinking wine and beer and enjoying life. Ibrahim was really interesting, though sometimes he would go off on soliliquys for 20 minutes in his fast, clipped French, which left me completely lost. He didn’t seem to mind though. Close to 2, we decided to wander a bit, since we had just been sitting on the bench for hours. This is when I really started to understand Ibrahim, and how fresh he is here. The first bar we went to was too crowded to get in, so we just bounced around in the crowd outside, hi-jacking some muffled Daft Punk beats. Ibrahim was really into it, and let loose dancing. He then pointed out this other bar around the corner that was un-marked and less crowded. When we got inside, it didn’t seem much like a bar at all, but some sort of chic lounge, but still, without a bar in it. Ibrahim didn’t care and just continued to dance, alone, oblivious to the fact that nobody else was really dancing, let alone dancing in the middle of the room, alone. Of course this would not be the least bit weird in Africa, as it is just a given that anybody can just dance when they are moved to, regardless, of time, location or choice of music. Within a few minutes, somebody approached him to inform him that this was a private party and that he had to leave. He didn’t understand because he does not speak any Spanish, and seemed to not understand how he could have done any harm, and wanted to make conversation with the guy while maintaining his dance. I quickly stepped in and explained and got us out of there.

This was really uncomfortable though, because it was hard to say why they bothered to ask him to leave. He obviously stood out more than I did as the only black guy there (something that never occurred to him as an issue) but also because he was dancing so conspicuously. If he had just mildly sipped a beer in the corner with me would they still have noticed him and asked him to leave? It’s difficult to say. I tried to think of the reverse situation, as if I wandered into a private party in Senegal. Would I have been noticed? Yes, of course. However, I would have been greeted with open arms.

Throughout the night, Ibrahim tried to start conversations with random people, always hoping that they would be able to speak some French. Sometimes people were friendly about it, but many people would barely respond, and almost seemed scared to talk to him, regardless of language. It was interesting to watch, but at the same time I felt really bad for Ibrahim, and wondered how long it would take before he became frustrated with people’s responses to him, or their lack thereof.

We decided to wander some more through the narrow streets, still lit and busy at 4 AM, and eventually reached a big plaza, which is probably famous or something. It was crowded with young folk wandering around, talking, drinking, shouting. An army of Indian and Pakistani men wove through the crowds offering dollar beers and samosas, helping to prolong people’s night as bars slowly started to close up. We met a French guy and his new American friend, and as an odd mix of people, we went into a club for it’s last fifteen minutes. People were still dancing strong despite the hour, and the floor being covered in broken glass. Although I still felt like an observer in this Spanish style late night that is so legendary, I was still glad to at least witness it before leaving.

Ibrahim had not told me, but he was planning to stay up with me all night because he felt bad for me not having a place to stay, but I insisted that he go back home, to his friend’s apartment where he lives, and sleep. I wandered a bit more and saw the dregs of the night. Stumbling guys taking their pick of the hordes of competing African prostitutes, a man doing a line of coke off the table of a closed café in the shadows, arguments escalating between bros high on machismo.

I made my way toward the beach, stopping every few minutes to read from the book I had been carrying in my pocket all night, until my eyes grew heavy, and I would walk again. I timed it perfectly, and got to a good spot on the beach to lay down and doze as the sun came up.

An hour and a half was enough, and soon after I woke, I made my way into the day, slightly self-conscious about my general appearance, though still feeling ok because if it was obvious that I had just stayed up all night and slept briefly on the beach, people would be totally cool with that.

I met up with Ibrahim that afternoon, before I had to leave for the airport, because he had asked me to take some portraits of him around town, so that I could bring them to his family when I visit Senegal. Here are a few that we came up with.

I managed to reach the airport with public transit several hours before my midnight flight, which I discovered to be delayed. When the plane finally boarded at 3:00 AM, and with only a brief sleep the night before, I was too tired to even care much about my destination and comprehend that I was finally going to be back on African soil in a matter of hours.

How to get to Spain with your thumb

Lise left Marseille on Monday, and on Tuesday I was back on the road. Meeting up with Jonathan was still proving complicated, and he was caught up in Turino, Italy, and decided to just fly to Morocco from there later since there were really good fares. So I decided I would try my best to hitch a ride on a long distance ferry from either Sete, France or Barcelona, Spain. I had heard this was possible by talking to the truck drivers before they board, since they pay per truck, not per passenger.

So I left my wonderful couch surfing host Lia’s house early on Tuesday, though not as early as I wanted to due to alarm failure. By 9:30 I was in my spot, with my sign for Sete, and felt like it was a good start. Twenty minutes in, however, a girl passing by informed me that this was not the way to Sete, and that I should go to some other highway (one I was not familiar with). I actually knew that there were two routes to Sete, and I was on one of them, in fact the one that google maps suggested, but I would have felt foolish to remain standing there when all the locals knew that it was not the normal route. So I headed in the vague direction she pointed and looked around desperately for signs for the other highway heading west instead of north. I won’t go into the details, but I eventually found it, and it didn’t begin close to where I had started at all. I walked for at least an hour before I had found my new spot, where there was actually a sign that said “Montpellier”, which is right before Sete, which was comforting.

I was happy it was not raining this day, but after a few hours of waiting, I could feel the sun was just killing me, and I was almost out of water. I grew unsure of my hitching spot, until I found a cardboard sign that read “Marseille” on one side and “Montpellier” on the other side. This was a good sign, literally and figuratively, so I adopted it, and held it up for good luck since it had worked for someone else.

As I waited, I grew fascinated with the people I saw walking back and forth on a trail that led somewhere under a freeway overpass. It was like an anthill. I would see these disheveled people, most wearing worn out and obviously found clothes, walk off the trail and onto the streets and disappear for maybe half an hour and then they would return with random objects. They mostly seemed like makeshift building materials. Scrap wood, a door, piles of cardboard, buckets, whatever they could pull together from whatever the streets had to offer. I wanted desperately to see what was going on, or at least more about them. I wondered if these were gypsies, a people I have only heard bits about over the years. They seemed to fit the description of the fringe of city livers straddling a line of a nomadic artistic people with a rich culture, and an oppressed and impoverished homeless people. Eventually one of the guys, about my age or younger, who was wearing a shirt about two sizes two small, with pink glittery writing on it summoned me to the corner to ask where I was going. I showed him my sign and said Montpellier. We hobbled along in conversation for a few minutes before we both realized that this was because neither of us spoke much French. He asked where I was from, and I said America. “Oooh la-la”, he said. “Me, Roma.” So that answered my question that these were indeed gypsies. Now that our origins were established, he felt it was proper to ask me for some money, which I said I didn’t have (well, I had a 20 euro bill). He persisted, as did I. Then he said something that I didn’t understand, but he pointed toward wherever they were living. I imagined that this was an invitation into their living space, but I could not be too sure. Then he asked if he could come with me to Montpellier. This caught me off guard, and I said that I was then going to Sete, then taking a boat to Morocco. I thought this would deter him, but it only seemed to confuse him, and then persist that he wanted to come with me. I think if I would not have been so caught off guard I would have considered it, but at the moment, it just seemed like it would just add stress, and also make it harder to get a ride. If you have been following the news, gypsies are not always looked upon favorably in France.

After he left, I regretted not asking to see their home, but it was too late because I was almost immediately picked up. He wasn’t going far, but after 5 hours of standing in the sun, I was happy to be on the road.

He dropped me off at a roundabout, which had a snack bar (looked like a taco truck) tucked away off the road. I considered going there because all I had eaten was a bit of saucisson, but before I got a chance, the car pulling away from it was stopping to pick me up. And he was going all the way to Montpellier! And he was listening to Rihanna!

The boat from Sete was supposed to leave at 7:00, so I knew it would be a long shot to get there in time. We would getting to Montpellier just before 6:00, and Sete was another 20 or 30 minutes away on a different road. My ride did not think I had a chance, so I decided to point my thumb toward Spain, and try to get to Barcelona overnight.

I was dropped off in a truly terrible spot, so I walked along the highway for about a kilometer and a half (dangerous, yes) because there had been a sign for a tollbooth in a kilmoter. I don’t know what happened, but it was not there. So I got off the freeway and hit the nearest onramp for the highway in the direction of Barcelona. The only problem was that for all the traffic getting onto the freeway, they were all going east, while I wanted to go west. At one point I counted cars for about twenty minutes, and there was a 27:1 east to west car ration.

At 9:00, having still not eaten, or refilled my water bottle, and needing to pee, I walked to the nearest gas station, assuming that I could complete all these tasks while also getting some badly needed road information. I purchased a ridiculously over-priced tiny sandwich (there was no price tag) assuming that this would get me rights to the bathroom, water filling and road information. No bathroom, no water, but I did find out that the tollbooth was about two km further down the highway. It seemed like my only hope.

A long walk back to the freeway, then a long walk along the highway in the dark, and as expected, she had underestimated the distance. After 20 minutes of walking I arrived at the first sign saying that the tollbooth was in 2 km. I took comfort in knowing that they would at least have water and bathrooms as they always seem to. In this process, I found out that I walk, with my pack on, about 1400 steps per kilometer. Very useful information. Truck drivers would occasionally honk at me as they passed, though I am not sure for what purpose. To let me know they were there? I knew already, this just scared the hell out of me every time. It was probably to tell me to get off the road, but maybe if a truck driver ever stopped to pick me up I wouldn’t be so desperate as this.

When I got to the tollbooth I was horrified to see that there was no rest stop portion, nor a good (safe, visible, or legal) place to hitch from. I gave it my best shot, and after a couple hours, very close to what I had designated as my sleeping time, 1:00, a small diesel truck stopped for me. There were two guys, who were speaking Spanish, a relief to me, and an even bigger relief that it was not Spain Spanish. They were from Peru and Ecuador, and the three of us were delighted to have met fellow Americanos. This was actually very comforting, and it seemed like a familiar face in this long and depressing night. Their names were Alberto (the more personable driver), and his companero, Juan, or as Alberto called him “Yackie Chan”, for obvious reasons. It felt good to be speaking a second language and having it actually work, plus these guys were just typical fun-loving Latinos just loving life. I had expected to sleep immediately, but I easily stayed awake for at least an hour and a half. They were transporting equipment from Germany. They said they could drop me off at a town near the border, because they were going to sleep before heading on to Barcelona. Eventually, though, they offered for me to sleep in the back of the truck and then take me all the way to Barcelona the next morning. Sounded perfect to me.

They woke me at about 8:00, and I was still excited to have not had to sleep in the grass on the side of the highway the night before. They even cooked me a breakfast of rice and tuna, which was surprisingly amazing, though I was surprised that they weren’t eating. I offered to share, but they insisted they would get something on the road. They also insisted that I have one of their Beck’s beers that they had brought from Germany. Might as well enjoy the rambling life!

Alberto had a unique creative streak and improvised a plane from a bottle and some cardboard.

An hour and a half later, they dropped me off in a suburb of Barcelona and gave me the warmest wishes for my travels. This will be one of my more memorable rides, with some memorable guys.