Barcelona Pit-Stop

Fresh out of Cali, Colombia, with a stopover in Bogotá and back to Barcelona – a breeze of a journey. Whenever my wanderlust grew restless, and I felt the urge to hit the reset button, Barcelona was my sanctuary. Over the years, it’s become something of a home to me, an unconventional one. More accurately, it’s a place where I’d need to hunt for a home each time I returned.

This time, luck handed me an older lady’s flat in Eixample. The room itself was bare-bones – a snug interior space with a single bed and a desk. A flat with a terrace, a prime spot for smoking, given that the listing had a green light for indoor smoking. Strangely enough, the lady and her son were heavy smokers who insisted on smoking indoors, even though they had a perfectly good terrace. It was mind-boggling; who smokes anything other than weed indoors? Even more baffling was that the smoke seemed to gravitate towards my little interior room, turning it into a smoky cave. When I cracked open my window to air it out, the smoke from the kitchen and living room would swirl in, creating the opposite effect. The flat was booked through a greedy agency, and the deposit and cancellation options were a hassle. Then there was the older lawyer-son, who also fancied himself a player in this game. Thankfully, the lady was cooperative and empathetic to my concerns. I think she felt guilty about smoking up the place so much, even though I was a smoker myself, I didn’t want to be marinating in it. She just couldn’t kick her habit and move to the terrace. Years later, I found the same flat listed on a different platform, with a “smoking on the terrace only” rule. In the end, we reached an agreement that suited us both. I made it clear that the only issue was the smoke; otherwise, I’d have been content staying with them (well, mostly true – living with them was a going to be a challange to say the least). I tried to nudge them towards smoking on the terrace, but who was I to dictate how they lived in their own home? We settled on terms that allowed me to leave without losing my deposit and without breaking the bank on the first month’s rent. We both knew that being stuck there would have been a nightmare. I remember being so relieved that I handed her 50€ from the deposit to thank her for all the inconvenience.

The Tayrona experience itself was nothing short of spectacular. The hike, spanning anywhere from two to four hours, transported me to the park’s heart—its pristine beaches, starlit nights in a tent, and breathtaking sunrises beckoning each new day. I ventured into the park twice, initially for a single day, only to realize the park’s immense allure and the necessity of witnessing both sunrise and sunset.

I vividly recall a sensational Spotify playlist accompanying my trek, elevating the experience to unparalleled heights. On my second visit, I ingeniously managed to smuggle some herb into the park, a precarious endeavor as bag searches greeted park entrants. My composure proved paramount as I navigated this challenge successfully. Once inside, the initial hour of hiking led me through lush jungle terrain before unveiling the pristine coastline, a trek that consumed an additional three to four hours. Frequent pit stops punctuated my journey, each revealing unique coves and majestic rock formations. Periodically, the path would wind back into the jungle, weaving through a verdant rainforest punctuated by towering palm trees. The park’s pièce de résistance consisted of two petite coves, culminating in a peninsula crowned by an enigmatic hut.
The sunset, regrettably, failed to dazzle, as a thick veil of clouds obscured the sun, casting its final rays over the distant ocean horizon. My dinner was a delectable sandwich from a beachside vendor, and I retired early in preparation for the imminent sunrise. With limited culinary options, I subsisted on a diet of sandwiches, cookies, and bananas.

In hindsight, it was a stroke of luck, as the Corona pandemic hit unexpectedly a week or two later. I’m glad I spoke up and changed my situation instead of just gritting my teeth and bearing it.I can’t even fathom how unbearable it would have been to endure those times with them – absolutely insane. A later cancellation would have been impossible as the city went into lockdown, and they likely would have argued they couldn’t find anyone else to rent for three months.

Luckily, my buddy Dan came to the rescue. He lived with his girlfriend Sasha and their (well, her) dog, Dilla, a bit outside the city. The place was far from glamorous, but I was moving in with friends, so I didn’t mind. They had a small spare room for me, complete with a desk and a window offering glimpses of Montjuic and the apartment complex. Unfortunately, the dog had wreaked havoc on their living situation. Sasha hadn’t taught him any manners or established who the boss was in their relationship. She treated him like a human baby from day one, and now he refused to listen to anyone. It was impossible. That dog needed some discipline, but I doubted he’d ever get it. To make matters worse, he was a Beagle, the worst choice for anyone expecting a peaceful, non-violent relationship with their canine companion. Consequently, their living room lacked any nice furniture because Dilla had a penchant for destroying it all. They eventually gave up on buying new stuff. No rugs, no comfy couch, just the dog’s crate, a few metal chairs, a metal table, and some random pallets. It could have been a fantastic living space with a view of Montjuic, boasting large, floor-to-ceiling windows – bright and spacious.
Thanks to the dog, our days were pretty much divided. Dan and I had to rush home from whatever we were doing to take Dilla out for a walk, which became increasingly annoying. Sometimes, we had to do it two or even three times a day. Although we paired these walks with a nice joint, it still felt like a chore. I learned in Barcelona that having a dog was no walk in the park and could seriously disrupt your daily life, especially in the long run.

It was early March, still chilly but mostly sunny and dry in Barcelona. Those two months before the May rains are magical. Returning to Barcelona always felt like strapping on rollerblades and skating down those familiar streets.

I’d done it so many times that it had lost a bit of its charm, but I still relished every return. Plus, it was my favorite time to be in the city – fewer tourists, not too hot yet, early nights, and late mornings. We made the most of the time we had before everything went haywire. We hit the streets to skate every day, honing our skills and trying to capture those epic moments. My plan was to film a sequel to the video we made during my previous visit, called FSK. Unfortunately, Corona arrived earlier than expected, and there was no time to film. Our friend Vince from Sweden was in town – always great catching up with him, discussing his latest projects and sharing juicy gossip from his shoots. We went on a few skate sessions, paid a visit to Pasquale at NAP, devoured some tasty food at Chen Yi’s, sipped on café con leche – it was the good life. We also met up with Nick, a friend I’d made during my first year in Barcelona. We grabbed a couple of beers by the port steps after a full day of skating. It was the perfect way to kick off the evening, watching the sunset while Nick regaled us with tales of our crazy adventures together. The guy was a riot, with an uncanny memory for stories, even the tiniest details that had slipped my mind. I always felt embarrassed when he recounted an episode I’d been part of but couldn’t recollect. After revisiting those good times, the night could take us anywhere – skating through the city, bar hopping, and ending up in one of Barcelona’s plazas, locking lips with random girls. A night out with Nick was always an epic rollercoaster, both on skates and as a party coordinator, often simultaneously.