Caroline
Travels volume 1
hi
I’m Caroline. I had the unbelievable privilege of visiting my best friend, Erika, in Barcelona this summer. I like to write and take nice photos so I’m giving this whole publication thing a try.
chapter one
Barcelona
Stockholm for an hour
We find our heroine at a Lavazza kiosk in the Stockholm Arlanda Airport. At last, she thinks, the first latte of the adventure. Having just made her descent over Norway and Eastern Sweden, images of the neatly modular urban fabric, the boxy train that ran parallel to her Norwegian Air window for 30 seconds, and the breathtaking natural beauty of the Stockholm archipelago spreckling the placidly gray water lives up to her expectations of Scandinavia. Everything from the bathroom closets to the white marble water bottle sinks to how the spoon, sugar packet, and a little latte all balance so perfectly on the same saucer as if it had been scuplted ever so subtly, precisely for these nuances of human life - ugh, could she come back? But alas, it is “Till flygplanet!” (To the aircraft!) for her. She is wildly sleep deprived from the red eye flight from Los Angeles, but thankful for being in Sweden as she waits for the regional jet that will take her to Barcelona. MADE IT TO SWEDEN, YOU GUYS! She taps out a quick email to her family who is probably worried sick already. This is a Caroline in her natural habitat, clumsily typing an email on her iPhone, consuming caffeine with the other hand, stressed out, trying to convince herself and others that she’s not, and sofreakingexcited all at the same time.love and miss you all so much, Caroline
! a k i r E
Caroline jumps off the Aerobus at the Placza Universitat station quite literally leaps - screaming for all the population of a block’s radius to hear, tears springing to her eyes, hugging Erika who has been diligently waiting on the curb for the past twenty minutes. For all the times in her life that Caroline had used the word “surreal,” this moment took the cake. Erika proffers a 1.5L bottle of ice cold water, insisting she must be thirsty after 24 hours of travelling. “Here, let’s just sit down. It’s what Europeans do. They just sit in plazas.” Erika read Caroline’s mind in true Erika fashion. Water and rest: the only two things she wanted. They must have sat there for over an hour because then it was dark. Erika’s apartment is magnificent, the Bohemian, accidential kind of beauty that only happens when you share an apartment on Carrer D’Aribou with a Brazilian couple and their Husky puppy, and brick balconies flock large French doors overlooking the intersection below. The girls promptly head out for hamburgers and claras, traditional Barcelonian drinks made up of half Moritz beer and half lemonade. Caroline miserably decides that her inability to comprehend one word on the menu has nothing to do with her drowsiness, but instead with the alienness of Catalan. Back home, they pass out in Erika’s queen sized loft bed. The next morning, Erika, who had a doctor’s appointment, leaves a trail of post-it note instructions for a self-guided tour/run of Avenue Diagonal if Caroline happens to wake up early. She does, and explores - because she doesn’t quite run, per-se - the parklike thoroughfare that actually runs diagonally through the entire city. She notes that Barcelona public space with its parklets, sculpted bird baths, and ergonomically arced benches lining every path is completely organic to the undulating contours of much of the urban fabric. Everything about Barcelona is musical and heartbreakingly understated.
“ Barcelona,an admirable city, a city full of
life, intense, a port open to the past and
future�
- Le Corbusier
Antoni Gaudí Today, on Antoni Gaudi’s 162nd birthday, Caroline saw Casa Batllo, an apartment complex on Las Ramblas, decorated in cool color mosaics, contoured shelves and edifices, and all textures of glass. She and Erika sat on the curb for ten minutes to “soak it in.” They had to do the same in El Catedral, the Gothic Catolonian church nestled in the heart of the old city. They sat in the pews and just watched as the architecture unpacked faith itself, communicating in subtly differnt light and different sound quality. They soaked it in in three different mini plazas all connected to each other by tight cobblestone alleyways Caroline couldn’t possibly generate a mental map of - Erika is blessed with advanced navigation skills that maneuvered them through this urban knot. At one point, Erika insisted they try the sangria in one of her favorite bars. The place was empty, very dim, read like a castle with swords mounted on the wall, and barrels for tables. The sangria was ridiculous, and they soon found themselves talking very loudly about sex and relationships. They talked about Erika’s boyfriend, Ramiro, abut what might become a serious relationship, and how it doesn’t matter because everything ends eventually. They saw La Boqueria, a huge covered market teeming with more freshly squeezed juices than tourists. They indulged in churros con chocolate. Now they are about to pass out again after a quality home cooked meal of Spanish rice, chorizo, onion and bell pepper all combined somehow in a soupish consistency. Good.
Poble
Espanyol We now find our heroine laying on the floor of Erika’s bedroom on her stomach, a sheen of sweat on her brow, full of gravas and cortado (a real cotado, not the #dailycortado snobby New Yorkers whine about), with dirty feet folded over herself in the air. Her and Erika’s laundry dries on the clothes line on the balcony and Erika, yet again, is passed out on the hard floor. After a breakfast with freshly squeezed orange juice, now a permanent fixture of Erika’s diet, they took the Metro up Mont Juic to El Poble Espanyol, a cute Medieval community tourist trap. From coats of arms, stucco glow, olive trees, cobblestone streets, narrow terraced alleys, and Navarro, Valencian and Granadan motifs, it could have been the Spring 2011 J.Crew shoot. Or a postcard, that too. Erika and Caroline promptly took the 150 up the hill to Mont Juic, one of Barcelona’s earliest fortresses. The views of the beach and rest of the city were breathtaking and varied as the girls descended this wonderfully landscaped stepped garden on the castle grounds. In the heart of the city, unmistakably, soared Sagrada Familia. The only structure that competed in height was the one skyscraper that has been the butt of every architecture joke at Berkeley for its blatantly phallic form. “I found the D.” Erika and Caroline joke as they get back on the bus. The girls spontaneously walk around MNAC, Museo Nacional de Arte Catalunya. This is a stunningly tremendous palace that overlooks the entire city and features cascading waterfalls and fountains along its axis leading back into the city. They grab gravas, a traditional Catalan dish of potatoes in a spicy cream and tomato sauce at Cafe Barito, talked about money and moving places. Twenty minutes, Erika passed out on the floor and Caroline began writing it all down.
Sagrada Familia Caroline walks out of the Metro station, scanning between buildings, looking for this place called La Sagrada Familia that has been covered in every Architecture course she’s taken at Cal. Then it occurs to her to turn around. Momentarily, it is as if she is facing Godzilla, at least how she has scaled up Godzilla in her head. The details are so infinite that it appears, from her distance, that the entire structure is pixellated. Chrysa, Erika’s flatmate and escort for the day, describes it as the rippled texture of wet sand poured slowly into a mound. Caroline cannot comprehend the size of the thing - it is as if it doesn’t fit in the frame of her eyeball. Sagrada hurts her eyes after five minutes from zooming in and out at two second intervals. The juxtaposition of a nagging headache and 107 m tall spires ascending into heaven can make one feel like an embarrassing excuse for a bug. Caroline rejoins Chrysa and her cousin, Renia, at the entrance to the Nativity Tower elevator. Chrysa is from Foster City and halfway across the world, Caroline learns that Chrysa is friends with her freshman year roommate and the entire freshman year gaggle she met through association. They ascend the tower, the elevator a mere 4 ft diameter tube that catapults them hundreds and hundreds of feet abover the city skyline. Claustrophobia aside, the spiral staricase and bell shafts were tremendous - a divine geometric feat. By the time they reached the bottom, they were a little sick, a little dizzy, and weak in the knees. “Wow. Memories,” Chrysa muses as they exit through the gift shop.
Parc Guell
Erika and Caroline wander into the clearing just off the main path of Parc Guell, drawn to the softer sounds of an acoustic guitar. Caroline tells Erika that she needs to sit and listen because she’s just gotten the chills. The elderly Catalonian man, Rafi, is playing the Swan Lake overture on a splintery guitar atop this shaded vista of Barcelona, flocked by a semicircle of benches spreckled with pigeons. The scene was so still save for the flinching of pigeons and twitching of Rafi’s right hand. The sound washed over them, melting the quivers of jaws, smoothing the stiffness of brows, and quite literally touching Caroline’s soul. The beginnings of tears crept to the corners of her eyes. Erika drops 10 Euro into Rafi’s box for one of his CD’s and mid-song he tells them not to leave just yet. He finishes the song, puts his instrument down, and jogs over to the girls, running his finger over the song list to explain what each song means. As an afterthought he throws in a second CD for free, and in awe Erika and Caroline walk uphill to continue on the loop around Parc Guell, goosebumps casting small shadows on their upper arms in the sunset.
Details This Bag
This Book
This Camera
These Sandals
Lost in translation La Perra Erika used the direct translation of female dog, “la perra,” in reference to the Husky that peed in her bedroom. Her boyfriend, Ramiro, who is learning English slang, texts back incredulously asking, “Mi amor, I’m not sure I am understanding you, someone peed in your room?”
Que pedo? Caroline had learned during her short time in Honduras that “Que pedo?” was South American slang for “What’s up?” Much to her dismay, she learned it meant “Who just farted?” in Spain.
Sundays in Spain are spent with the family over huge brunches. No matter everyone’s age, their occupation, and their district of residence, everyone makes it to Sunday brunch. And sure enough, everything is closed except brunch places. Erika and Caroline meet Ramiro for brunch at the Benedict in the Born District where they indulge in the eponymous Eggs Benedict. Afterwards, Ramiro gives a quick history lesson of the odd urban planning of the district. He points out the oldest government buildings in Barcelona, explaining that once those were established, development proceeded outwards in a spiral. The labrynthine model was designed to confuse raiders of the 14th or so centuries...as well as gringos like Caroline. After bidding Ramiro goodbye, the girls aimlessly wander around the Born District again, visiting the city ruins and Parc Ciutatella. At the park, Erika takes a siesta as Caroline sips a cortado and watches Spanish families play guitar to each other, practice juggling, row boats, and talk in full rich sentences. Sundays seem to her a meaningful interim of doing exactly what she is doing - nearly nothing. She later goes to the beach with Erika, sits on the boardwalk eating dulce de leche gelato until it starts to rain, forcing them back underground into a Metro station. Sundays here are a shrug of the shoulders, an entertained indulgence, time squandered in indecisiveness or sluggishness, all hilariously accidental. Back home, Greece ultimately loses their spot in the World Cup and Chyrsa on her last night here, who has spent the last three hours screaming and jumping for her homeland instead of packing, begins to cry in Felipe’s arms. Caroline dejectedly drinks some crema de Catalan, explaining that America really isn’t in to sports - football culture is 20% athletic prowess and 80% commercial venture and sponsorship opportunities. “No, we really don’t have anything quite like this.”
short stories
While wandering the Born District, Erika and Caroline happen upon an art installation featuring graffiti, screen prints, painted furniture hanging from the wall by shreds, and metal anthropomorphic sculptures. While Caroline is at first hesitant to take photos within the enclosure, Erika mutters, “Yo no tengo une sillon de fucks,� and strikes a pose on a shredded armchair.
There is a famous black iron water fountain at the top of Las Ramplas adjacent to which is a brass plaque in Catalan. According to Catalonian tradition, whoever drinks from the fountain must return to Barcelona before they die. In true Caroline fashion, 90% of her gulp ends up splattered on her lap and shoes.
Erika leads Caroline into a nondescript xurroteria in the Raval District. They are immediately handed a very long menu all in Catalan, all in 10 pt font. Erika says, “Trust me,� places their order in rapid Spanish, and receives two teacups full of dark chocolate and whipped cream with two plates of churros. Caroline no longer considers the Disneyland churros actual churros.
Erika and Caroline met a black pug in the Born District. The rest is history.
Bebidas Sangria Erika’s sangria place of choice is La Oveja Negra in the Raval District that is part Medieval Anglo Saxon cave, part sports bar.
Thai Massage
Thanks to Erika’s bartender boyfriend, Ramiro, Caroline sampled the popular ginger bourbon cocktail
Cava El Xampyent of the Born District effectively wooed Caroline into two glasses of the Catalunyian champagne.
Clara Half Moritz beer, half lemonade, claras are served on tap and a popular choice for tapas.
TIm, Erika’s friend and “little” from UCSB, joins the girls in Barcelona on Monday morning, marginally disoriented after his early flight from Portugal. Caroline and Erika groggily let him into the building for tea and scheduling for the day. They all end up getting tapas before a legitimate meal, and split up to explore and shop the Poble Sec district. Ten murals, two doner kebabs, and a cappucino later, the group returns home for food, sleep, and water before their token Barcelona night. The choice is hard: a salsa club or a club club. Erika and Tim’s friend from their pre-law fraternity, David, is also in town with his friends, and has texted everyone to meet at Barcelloneta Beach at 1:30. En route to Chupitos, Caroline finds 50 Euro on the ground, and like true Americans, the three of them huddle, jump, and start shouting, “DRINKS ON CAROLINE!” Twenty minutes later, the trio relocates to El Cyrano, the pour-your-own-cocktail enterprise that resembles an urban frat betweeen the deafening shrieks of American college students and everyone’s choice 10:1 alcohol to chaser ratio. Popcorn is being flung across the room, a Neanderthal of a Tennesseean Caroline converses with for three minutes before finding a toothpick more exciting dumps an entire bowl of popcorn over a wasted girl’s head, and the sound of broken glass issues a “PARTY FOUL” every five minutes. The three feel completely ashamed of their native culture - suddenly the “messy American” stereotype materializes, and they feel embarrassed to have even brought their business to an unassuming family-owned bar. After one more shot of Ponche in the doorway, the three hail a cab and speed off to Barcelloneta. The cumulative alcohol takes its full effect in the car, and while Tim speaks rapid Portuguese to the driver, Erika and Caroline have the windows rolled down, craning their faces out like dogs. The driver drops the three off at Opium Night Club, and are promptly met by David and his entourage, many of them native Catalonians. The group then walks along a boardwalk lined with discotheques, hookah bars,
and assorted other bars. Outside each are one or two of the most aggressive bouncers the Americans have ever seen - they stretch their burly arms out, cajoling the group into entering what could very well be a human trafficking trap, etc. but mostly trying to physically herd them. They push past only to find the salsa club at edge of the harbor closed. The girls in their salsa dresses - or for Caroline, the next best thing, essentially a cover up and flats - shake their fists at David for the false information. However, all is quickly forgiven as soon as smoothtalking Erika, friends with the programmer of Opium, Barcelona’s premiere night club, leads the group downstairs into the plush darkness. Being in the club is a delicious assault on the senses. Smoke, sweat, strobe lights, and an all-powerful bass leave Caroline wondering if she is suffering from epilepsy or allergies. Postgrad David is very much still enamored by Erika (yet again, it’s hard not to be) and lingers by her side like a puppy. By 3:30, the group is sitting with legs splayed out on the sands of Opium’s private beach, watching two drunk Swedish girls play beach volleyball with an imaginary ball. They small talk more time away, but soon tire of watching drunk people take their tumbles in the breakers. And so with the rest of the 50 Euro, the trio hail a cab, have a dumb laugh, and sail into the glittering Raval District all the way home.
Caroline’s last day in Barcelona is characterized by talking irritably about stupid boys in Berkeley, and by bonding with Tim over a heavy egg and Iberian ham brunch at Brunch & Cake. Tim improves Caroline’s mood exponentially just by being Tim and saying Tim things but also by genuinely empathizing with her and escorting her to El Museo de Picasso in the Born afterward. The museum is an architectural love song, treating light so masterfully in wells and aged stone, illustrating the evolution of Picasso’s style from his days at the Madrid art schools all the way to Las Meninas and Guernica. Caroline is enthralled and purchases a catalogue of the French letters between Dali and Picasso in the gift shop. TIm and Caroline meet Erika and Ramiro in La Marketa de Princesa for paella (at last!) and approach a sorcerer of a chef clad in a black turban and robe, sporting a glassy piercing resembling a third eye. After octopus ink and asparagus paella, Caroline knows now that everything she has previously thought about paella has been dreadfully wrong. After splitting from Erika and Ramiro, Caroline and Tim wander, eventually thirsty for some sangria. They happen upon a plaza on Carrer de Cervantes, and sensing Caroline’s oncoming pout at the 10,50 Euro price of a pitcher of sangria, the host tells them to have a seat and assures that this will be the best sangria they ever had. An hour passes, Caroline and Tim lazily drink sangria, talk about life and travel, and about stupid boys in Berkeley. Then they stand up, and are ambushed by the physical aftermath of an entire pitcher of sangria that looked much smaller an hour ago. The Metro ride and walk home are oppressive, Caroline a nice shade of coral, Tim an evolving shade of plum. After a quick siesta with Erika, the three meet Ramiro for a hike up to “Los Bunkers,” a little known lookout over the entire city.
“Los Bunkers�made the entire trip. The group munches on bread, crackers, truffled brie, jamon, chorizo, and alfajores, legs dangling over the edge of abandoned army bunkers on the summit of a mountain. The wind whips over the glittering city, gold and indigo growing richer and richer in hue as the sun sets over the ocean. The Sagrada Familia soars above everything else in the entire city, impressive even as a dark, unintelligible mound from far away. Caroline gazes out, completely happy, contemplating what life would be like abroad. If she were to stay for a year in Paris, perfect her language skills, become a part of a culture she actually respects. If she were to be absorbed into as culturally and historically rich a country, even if just for a little while. She keeps thanking Erika, Tim and Ramiro just for hosting her and taking her here. She feels so much gratitude for being alive and healthy and present, the city wind whipping through the mesh of her sneakers. This is what it meant to be 20 and in transit literally, emotionally, developmentally. Caroline is in transit, the space between A and B. And as in every good story, the space is more important than the points themselves.