No Regrets!

Up at a decent hour. Jet lag didn’t take its toll as badly as it could have. Getting to bed early after a long travel day was key.

Matt’s flight arrived early, and he met us at the hotel. Big hugs all around. Matt was full of energy and ready to go, thanks to a good sleep on the plane. Lucky guy.

We gathered our things and headed out to explore Barcelona on foot. Beautiful morning for a walk, and we stopped for coffee, juice, and sandwiches, something that would become a daily tradition for us.

I’d been to Barcelona once before, so it all felt familiar, and I still had a decent lay of the land. After a few blocks, we were standing next to the looming, always impressive Sagrada Família. Just as awe-inspiring as I remembered. Before heading in for our timed entry, we walked around the perimeter to take some photos and ducked into a small shop for a slice of three-year-aged ham. Good stuff.

Heading into Sagrada Família, my border collie instincts took over. The place was filled with tourists, and we had a schedule to keep, so I gave everyone clear instructions to meet by the entrance at a certain time if we got separated. Then I realized I wasn’t a tour leader anymore and that everyone had a functioning phone. I tucked my border collie tail between my legs, took a moment to make fun of my herding instincts, and we all set off in different directions to explore the interior.

After about 45 minutes, we were done. It’s a really impressive place, but much of its beauty is vertical, so it doesn’t really take that long to walk around.

With some time to kill before lunch, I led the boys toward La Rambla and La Boqueria, a historic, massive public market with rows and rows of vendors selling meats. So many meats. And smoothies. And spices. So many smells.

While wandering through the market, we found Tony, Dave’s friend who, after much flight drama, had finally made it to Barcelona. Our whole group of five was finally here. Together. Whole. We did it.

We sat down at a café on the edge of the market for drinks and croquettes. Beautiful breeze, great conversation. It didn’t take long for me to think Tony’s face looked familiar. The guys thought he looked like Scott Baio, but I saw shades of Mark Harelik.

We continued our walk down La Rambla toward the Christopher Columbus monument and into the marina. The beach wasn’t accessible from where we were, but we could see the looming W Barcelona hotel at the western end of Barceloneta Beach from a distance.

Then back through the Gothic Quarter’s charming network of alleys to a restaurant called Colom for a tapas lunch. With all of us crammed into a booth, our energy grew to the point where we became so loud and obnoxious that the woman and child sitting next to us changed tables to get away from us. Tony tried to squeeze his fifth ass into our booth for four, angering the host and earning himself a prompt removal from the restaurant. The tapas were delicious, and the sangria went down easy.

It was around this point that the group gave me kudos for being a great judge of character. Seemed like a compliment out of nowhere at first, but perhaps it came from these friends recognizing that they’d been properly selected as the people who would have the most fun together on a trip like this. And so far, they were having a really great time. I took it as a deeper compliment that I genuinely appreciated.

Drowned in several pitchers of sangria, we made our way to Casa Batlló, one of Gaudí’s architectural masterpieces and a highlight of any visit to Barcelona. We all donned headsets for the audio tour, but the magnificence of the place was largely lost on us. Drunken hilarity reigned supreme, led by random Arnold Schwarzenegger grunts and inappropriate sexual references loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.

Nothing that a few more drinks at the rooftop bar couldn’t fix.

Matt, who’s always been a bit of a social and comedic risk-taker, had these qualities amplified by alcohol. He walked over to an Asian tourist and reached over him and to place his tablet directly in front of the man’s face, just as the man was trying to take a photo with his own tablet.

I couldn’t help it. The outrageous disrespect was classic Matt humor, made next-level funny when the sweet man felt it necessary to apologize TO MATT for getting in his way. So awful, but I haven’t laughed that hard in a while.

Dinner was at Bar Cañete, where they wisely placed us at a table in the back. More amazing tapas, more drinks. So good. Movie references and quotes dominated the conversation, and it didn’t take long for Matt and Jerry to become deeply engrossed in conversation with the American couple sitting next to us.

We took a taxi back toward the hotel but had to stop short, as La Mercè festivities had blocked off the street, forcing us to walk the rest of the way. We walked right through the middle of the parade, where the object seemed to be getting as close to the fireworks and drums as possible without losing an eye or burning a hole through your clothes.

Back at the hotel, we headed up to the rooftop bar, which offered a magnificent view of Barcelona at night. We could see the La Mercè parade winding down on one side, while the other offered an impressive, illuminated view of Sagrada Família.

Jerry and I enjoyed an Old Fashioned, which over the years has become “our” drink, given our mutual enjoyment of the cocktail and because I am old and he is fashionable.

While Tony headed off to talk to a table of three women sitting together, the rest of us struck up a conversation with a woman sitting by herself at the next table. Her name was Goda, and she was from Lithuania, but something didn’t feel quite right.

It didn’t take long for Jerry, who seems to have a nose for this kind of thing, to become convinced that Goda, the women Tony was talking to, and damn near most of the women in that rooftop bar were prostitutes. What a bummer.

Alcohol-fueled, ready to keep going, and hoping to meet women who were not prostitutes, we headed to a nearby bar called Boca Chica. One look at an extremely drunk Matt, and the bouncer was ready to turn us all away. But Matt somehow worked his drunken charm and got us inside.

Pretty cool place, a historic mansion converted into a multilevel cocktail bar. Lots of people inside, and once I found the booming dance floor in the basement, I had to get Jerry. Dancing on a cramped, sweaty dance floor is his specialty, and it didn’t take long for him to make his way to the middle and turn heads with his moves. Old Jerry was back. Unfortunately, so were the prostitutes. Jerry thought just about every woman down there was a prostitute and every guy was a pimp. Ugh, really? Is that how it is here?

We finally meandered back to the hotel and called it a night. A late one.

Woke up the next morning feeling a little wrecked, but nothing that morning juice and a sandwich couldn’t fix.

Our first stop was Park Güell, a complex of parks and gardens mostly designed by Gaudí, Barcelona’s patron architect, who seems to have left his stamp everywhere. It involved more climbing and heights than Dave would’ve liked, but a live performance of flamenco music gave him the surge of adrenaline he needed to make it to the top.

Then a group selfie. Cutting Matt out of our group selfies had become a running joke.

Everyone was dragging, hurting, desperate for a nap, but we forged on. We had a big day ahead of us: a day trip to Montserrat, a monastery perched in the mountains northwest of Barcelona.

Getting there required a taxi to the train station (where I got moderately ripped off after forgetting to insist on using the meter), followed by a train ride into the mountains. More inappropriate jokes on the train. Have I mentioned that Matt sometimes has a problem with volume control?

At the foot of the mountains, we boarded a much smaller rack railway that carried us up the mountainside to the station at the top. Dave wasn’t thrilled about this part, but he made it with the assistance of a wrestling game on his phone.

At the top and hungry, we refused to settle for a quick snack from a stall or open window. We desperately needed a sit-down restaurant, but our lunch options were severely limited. We ended up in a cafeteria-style buffet, where we had a pretty gross cafeteria-style meal. Easily our worst meal of the trip so far.

After lunch, we explored Montserrat. Stalls lined the cliffside road in front of the monastery, nearly all of them selling the same kind of honey. Dave and I popped into the basilica, which impressed us both, and saw the famous Black Madonna.

Then it was time for Dave to find a comfy spot to relax while the rest of us took the funicular to the very top for some exquisite views over the monastery and Catalonian countryside. The sandstone spires and rock formations reminded me a lot of Arizona.

On our return to Barcelona, unfortunate train timing meant we’d have to hustle to get ready for our 7:45pm dinner reservation at a fancy restaurant called Arcano.

Matt’s anxiety spiked when he realized he had to poop and admitted to the group that he’s not able to poop when rushed. Back at the hotel, we made sure he had ample time for his dump and rolled the dice with our reservation.

Dinner at Arcano meant more delicious food and more inappropriate laughs, something that’s become a recurring theme for us. Dave particularly enjoys teaching us some of his favorite vulgar Spanish expressions.

Then back to the hotel for a drink at the rooftop bar, where there were noticeably fewer suspected hookers on Sunday evenings.

Dave was feeling a little rough, so he decided to call it a night, but the rest of us wanted to keep going, so we headed back out to Bobby’s Free and prepared Matt with the password so he could enjoy the full experience. After a drink there, we headed across town to Dr. Stravinsky for some fancy craft cocktails to close out the evening.

Another late night. I think we got as much as we possibly could out of Jerry. I’m sending him home a withered husk of what he once was. For decades, I’ve been giving Jerry shit for missing my 30th birthday, but now the slate is wiped clean. He is absolved of his sins and invited to all birthday adventures forthcoming.

Tomorrow morning, we head to Ibiza. The greatest tragedy of the trip is that Jerry won’t be joining us. It’s totally his jam.