Besame Mucho

Thursday May 22nd/2014

Not so long ago,  a friend of mine from back home, a very dear friend, one might call her my other half, sent a message informing me she was going to Barcelona, and demanded that I meet her there. End of discussion. So I did. A steep forty quid later, curtesy of RyanAir, and my flights were booked. RyanAir, notorious for its ridiculously cheap flights, but even more so infamous for it's pocket gouging hidden fees, horrendously tight quarters, and overall shitty experience. They marvel you with cheap tickets, then make up for it by slamming you with every fee unimaginable. £40 for a round trip ticket to Spain. Oh, but you're paying with a credit card? £15 payment fee. You want to check one suitcase? £75 checked baggage fee. Did you not remember to check in online 2 days prior to your boarding date? Sorry, that's another £75 charge because we're too lazy to do it for you. In the event that we crash over water, would you be requesting a personal floatation device? Another £50. Oh and we require a minor deposit of your first born child if you're planning to use the oxygen provided on the aircraft. I may have elaborated slightly near the end there, but not by much. Normally, I wouldn't think twice about paying an extra £75 if it meant I would have all of my beloved clothes (and shoes) accompanying me to Spanish paradise, but seeings that I am now a wayfaring gypsy, the thought of paying more for a suitcase than my bloody ticket made me gag. Also the fact that my fat ass can't physically fit into any of my summer clothes (seriously, I tried-- many a time) made filling even a measly carry-on a challenge. So yes, Chelsea Elise Beamish, set off on a four day vacation to Barcelona with nothing more than her over the shoulder dance bag filled with, and I kid you not, 2 pairs of shoes. Not even shoes. FLIP FLOPS. Who am I, you ask? I couldn't even tell you. I am both disgusted and incredibly impressed with myself all at once. It's a confusing place to be in. I'm not sure what to think of it all. So I won't.

I managed to get myself safely, and efficiently to the Stansted airport (another impressive, yet incredibly unbelievable feat for myself) and arrived in Barcelona where I exchanged a few pounds for euros, and revelled in the fact that my pocket got heavier, not lighter (it feels good to not be Canadian right now). I splurged on a few figure forgiving summer pieces, 3 sizes bigger than they should be and swore to myself I would burn them the minute I returned to the UK, then hopped in a cab, destined for The Rey Juan Carlos Hotel. The cab driver was playing Van Morrison. I saw this as a good omen. My arrival was met by a super skinny, crazy ass bitch, jumping up and down, flailing her arms, and yelling "Chesty!!!". Enter my other half, Cristina Graziano. Naturally, I returned the welcome by sticking my head out the window, squirmy violently behind my seatbelt, and yelling back loud enough to frighten my Van Morrison loving cabbie. We were locked in an embrace before the taxi man had a chance to put his trusted taxi into park. A tad less explosive and jarring hug for her parents, a second dedicated to the shock felt over my lack of luggage, a quick tour of our swanky digs, then it was off to admire designer wedding gowns. Cristina and her family had already been in Barcelona for 5 days for a Bridal event to purchase gowns for the Bridal store they own back home. Cristina, knowing that my appreciation and slight obsession with beautifully crafted designer everything matched hers exactly, made sure I was able to marvel in the magic that was in its final day on display. And magic it was. Having worked at their bridal store for six months prior to moving, my ideas of weddings and marriage took a dramatic turn from castles and ball gowns, to city hall, jeans, and a stunning pair of shoes. Fuck weddings. Bride bitches be cray. But after 5 seconds of standing in front of a tiered, vintage lace, a-line Ellie Saab gown with a cathedral length veil, I was seeing stars… and castles. Faith restored. I, Chelsea Beamish, will get married in a castle. Wearing vintage lace, and a stunning pair of shoes. 

Gazing at gown, after gown, appreciation turns quickly to desire, which sooner becomes envy, and envy can work up an appetite like no other. It was time for my first ever authentic tapas experience in Spain. We cabbed to an area outside of the city centre and found ourselves a quaint little restaurant that upon our arrival, clearly evacuated the entire place on account of our VIP status, and need for private dining. In other words, the place was empty. Never a good sign, according to Cristina's father. The food was good, nothing worth professing my undying love over, but it was good. The asparagus was scrumptious. The wine, however, was another story. Considering I was at a table full of Italians, the fact that I was the only one wanting to drink was a tad alarming, but at this point not surprising. I ordered a glass of cougar juice, or what they call 'rose' in these parts, and was told they only serve wine by the bottle. While I may be a borderline alcoholic, I hold quite tightly to the "borderline" adjective. To consume an entire bottle to myself over an innocent dinner with family friends would surely blow my 'borderline' cover. 

"You sure you don't do wine by the glass?"

"It's four euro."

"A glass is?!?"

"A bottle."

"I'm sorry, what was that now?"

"A bottle, 4 euro."

I turn to Cristina, two blank expressions meeting each other. In a low tone I ask her, 

"We are in a restaurant, are we not?"

"Ya, dude."

"And he did just say a bottle of wine is four euro, did he not?"

"Ya, dude. Get the wine."

Cristina turns to the waiter, 

"Can she take the bottle home with her if she doesn't finish it?"

"Of course, Seniorita." (I'm not even sure he said Seniorita, but obviously I'm going to make this trip sounds as authentic as possible. 

"She'll get the bottle."

Oh, Cristina. She doesn't know yet that at one point, yes, Chelsea would have asked the very same question. But UK Chelsea knows there isn't a hope in hell that so much as a drop of rose will be left in that bottle by the time the check arrives. But she's asked, so the intention is there, which means I can keep my 'borderline alcoholic' title. 

"I'll get the bottle, gracias."

"Denada"

…The bottle lasted. There is a God, and that God is full of sober miracles. 

"We'll have another bottle, to go please." Cristina requests, as the waiter clears our plates. She's starting to get it. Good girl. 

After dinner, we walked to a corner store for ice cream mars bars. An item which, until now, I did not know was unavailable in Canada. Note to self: eat as many of these as humanly possible in the next twenty months. We grabbed enough junk food to feed and diagnose every starving child in Africa with Diabetes, then headed back to the hotel. It was too late to explore the city, and after seeing the price of cocktails at the restaurant bar, we decided to spend our first night together in Barcelona low key, and classy: Two take away bottles of restaurant wine, two overstuffed bags of trans fats, and two Canadians occupying a couple of hidden lounge chairs in the lobby of Rey Juan Carlos. Every intention of getting wasted, or sugar high, whichever came first. As our four euro bottles found their way closer and closer to empty, our months of gossip and catch up also did the same. We were now up to date with each other lives. And drunk. An impromptu visit from a group of uninvited, very drunk, very Mexican, wannabe Formula One drivers convinced us it was time to call it a night. And so we did. We both went to sleep, happy to be reunited, and even happier to have narrowly averted a mexican gang rape. 

The next morning, I awoke to grey. How fitting. Chelsea comes to Spain and it rains. I choose to believe that much like me, the Spanish sun doesn't like to rise before noon, and I don my fat kid summer romper along with a heavily knitted winter jumper (that's british for sweater) just incase my theory proves incorrect. 

We slept through continental breakfast (point one for the lost skinny kid) and headed off to catch the HoHo (hop on hop off tour bus). We spent the day hopping around the city, seeing sites, roaming the Rambla, almost getting robbed by pick pockets. We settled for a traditional meat, cheese and bread lunch at a tiny cafe Cristina and my brother had frequented years back. Delicious. The size of me, if I lived in Spain. Solar Eclipse potential. Another ice cream mars bar and we were back for more HoHo-ing. Sagrada Familia, Casa Batllo, Barcelona Cathedral-- none of which we were bothered to pay to get into, but from the outside, looked just lovely. Then there was La Boqueria. La Boque-rific. The most ridiculously amazing market I have ever experienced. Every corner turned had me gobsmacked. Row upon row of the most delicious looking fresh fruit, candied fruit, dried fruit, marzipan fruit. Marzipan hot dogs. Marzipan sushi. Marzipan doughnuts. Marzipan everything. An entire kiosk of, wait for it, candy. Just so much candy. Every kind of candy. We definitely bought candy. But then things got weird. Very weird. Now I am generally a very open minded person when it comes to food. I will eat pretty much anything and everything so long as it's prepared for me and, if need be, there is ketchup in close proximity. But what I'm about the explain to you is just, well, it's no. The answer is no. The raw meat section. We begin with pig legs and hooves. Ok, I've heard of this. Even stupid ginger beard told me his great grandma used to snack on said delicacy, so I can cope with this. But as we continued on, the ability to cope became sparse. I'm not known to be a very queazy person. I actually find a great deal of pleasure in disgusting things. Ask me to pluck the feathers off a freshly decapitated chicken and I'll giggle with the upmost glee. But ask me to stand next to a brain displayed in tupperware and I will smack the bullshit right out of you. Yes, brains. Or how about a little tongue? And by little I mean like a foot's worth of delectable, taste bud clad, tongue. No? Then perhaps a bit of pig face? Nostrils and all. Still not your style? Ok, ok, then what you're looking for is surely a taste of animal testicles. But that queazy feeling quickly turned to pure, fuming, mortification when I came to the last glass chamber of disgust and saw the saddest thing to ever exist under the same roof as candy. There before me, among every body part imaginable, was the head of a sheep. Completely skinned, just sitting there, looking up at me with it's one beady black eye. 

"We need to leave. Now."

I officially hate Spain. 

In order to cope with what can only be described as the most depressing sight of my quarter life, we stopped for a coffee break (I could have done with a sangria break but I was still proving the 'borderline' to my addiction). The latte break turned into a chirro and macaroon break (point one for the predominant fat kid) and by the time we were on our final leg of the bus tour, I was out cold. When I came to, the blue line had come to its final destination, which just so happened to stop right out front of a restaurant called Citrus. Dinner time. And oh my word, was it ever. This meal could easily go down in my archives as one of the best meals to ever meet my oversized mouth. Tapas, you are my everything. Spinach and shrimp rolls, goat cheese asparagus, my very first paella, creme brulee, and the most profound food coma to ever hit this seasoned Canadian foodie. Note that I didn't consume any meat. It was still a delicate subject. 

The next morning was again grey, as was my emotional state. Four days in Spain and I would be returning home even whiter than when I left. I cursed the heavens as I donned my second jumper, missed another continental breakfast (that's 2-1 for the skinny bitch) and hopped into another cab (I have a new found appreciation for the tube) destined for  indoor fun: L'Aquarium de Barcelona. Cristina wanted to see sharks. We both wanted to see penguins. There were definitely sharks. An entire underwater tunnel of shark viewing madness. There were other weird and ominous sea creatures, but many of them resembled the edible organs of the all the poor animal souls I saw the day before, so I was quickly losing interest. I just want penguins. We searched the entire premise for the tiny wobbling non-birds and were starting to lose hope when suddenly, before our eyes stood a ten foot penguin with a sign saying, Don't forget to visit us!  We ran in the directions of the arrows like small, annoying infant children only to find an empty tank. Our hearts sank. We found an aquarium woman and asked where the penguins had gone.

"They're ill." The woman said, in her heavy spanish dialect.

"They were killed?!?!?!" Cristina shrieked. 

"Ill. There are sick."

"What the hell have you done to them that they're all sick??"

It was time to leave. 

Keeping with routine, another sad mood would be cured with a quick caffeine stop. A coffee kiosk stood not far from the exit; a young senior standing behind an espresso machine, and in front of a row of alcohol. Oh hello, good friend. 

"Hola! Could I please have a latte."

"Ci"

"…And if you wanted to throw some Baileys in that bad boy I wouldn't hold it against you."

"Would you like?"

"…Are you serious?" I turned to Cristina, "It's not even 1:00pm and we're on the street at a coffee kiosk and he is actually offering me Baileys?"

"Ya, dude."

I'm not even sure why I was surprised. I live in London. I've been to Ireland. I should be used to unlimited access to booze 24 hours a day. 

Cristina takes over, "We'll have two."

"Gracias!" I add. 

A woman punches at the till then requests four euros from us, then interrupts herself and asks if we are together or separate. 

"Separate."

I hand her four euros and she shakes her head. 

"Two euro. Separate, no?"

A shocked silence. 

"It's two euro for one??!"

"Ci."

In awe of this information, I ask no questions and hand her the ridiculously cheap total. I watch as the cafe senior pours the Baileys. From my newly acquired amateur knowledge of free pours, I'd say he was at a double shot. Possibly an additional half. He places the coffees in front of our jaw dropped faces and asked if we wanted more.

I officially love Spain.

The rest of our day consisted of another lunch stop at the bread, cheese, and meat cafe, Cristina and I flying solo for a cheeky jug of sangria (which turned into two cheeky jugs of sangria) then back together for another tapas feast at Citrus. Why mess with a good thing? A final stop at Mcdonalds for some take away desserts. Doesn't matter how strange it sounds, Mcdonalds in Spain serves the most amazing desserts. Cheesecake, macaroons, chocolate ganache, cupcakes. Unreal. Ok, so the fat kid definitely won this round. Whatever. I have a fabulous personality.  

The next morning we said our goodbyes in traditional Chelsea/Cristina fashion: short and sweet, with no room for tears or emotional outbursts. Another god forsaken Ryanair voyage and I was home. Ah, the sweet smell of London! How strange to land in London and feel glad to be home. And I was. I missed it. Without thinking twice, I got off the tube and went straight to the unnamed bar (if we're talking about home, this is basically the same thing). It felt good to be surrounded by all the crazies again. My favourite crazy arrived to sweep me back to the notorious bachelor pad-dy, where I couldn't be more happier to be. It was in that moment when I officially felt that I had made a life for myself here. I had come home for the first time since I'd decided to call this city home. And it felt good. It felt natural. Authentic. Like this was always where I was meant to be. Where I was meant to call home. 

Twenty more months is not enough.