How did I end up in a bar, who knows where in Barcelona, sitting next to a self-confessed alcoholic philosopher with limited English that I could only understand less than half of what he was saying or asking me.
The Barcelona tourista bus (Hop on-off) did a California stop where I needed to exit. Had to wait for the next official stop. Even tried to make them feel sorry for me and let me off when they stopped at a red light. No go. :-(
At the next stop I was given directions with a wave of the hand, so hurried off in that direction at my usual pace. After a block, things weren't looking so good. Lots of steel doors and graffiti. Occasional person coming in opposite direction. The one comforting fact was a playground with children playing and adults present on my right.
Then it looked like a dead end and on the right was a Tapas bar that was rather crowded. So that is a good sign, right? Wrong. No one speaks English. I walk through and find only one table....a table for four and I get yelled at in Spanish that I cannot sit there because I am one. Go sit at bar! I am told.
Confused, I go over to the bar and look for an empty stool. Only one is next to a man who gets the bartender's attention to give me a menu. My thoughts were that I was very hungry and some gazpacho would be perfect. Bartenders were super busy but I finally got a glass of gazpacho with a straw. Then a local version of paella that was potatoes, fish, and bell peppers, Actually was good. And finally a small beer.
The guy next to me starts talking to me. I could make out something about relationships, Joseph and Mary and a child, but he says he is not Catholic. He kept asking if I am from England, Scotland, or Ireland. When I say the United States he goes on another religious tangent about Santa Cruz, San Jose, etc all being saints. Then it is my hat that becomes the center of his attention. He proceeds into a series of what he thinks are flattering words and wants to know what one calls all of them together in English.
Asks if I am over 50. Do I know of the movie Rumble Fish? Insisted I must see it. Then the Beatles and the way he said it, it sounded like Bittles. So when he started naming them I caught on and he got excited.
He did not speak as loud as many men seem to do in restaurants or bars so along with the bar noise and his minimal English I was unable to hear or understand. Even if could have understood every word I still would have felt as though I was talking to a mental patient.
Where was my money and my purse? On my lap under the napkin.
If you were watching this you would not have known whether to feel sorry for me or burst out in laughter.
I think the bartender felt sorry for me and asked if I wanted the check as I was finishing my beer. Which I did and scooted out of there.
It was not a dead end after all, but a ramp up to another street that I followed. Once on the street I recognized some landmarks and was able to find my way back to the hotel and tried to process what had just happened.
The Barcelona tourista bus (Hop on-off) did a California stop where I needed to exit. Had to wait for the next official stop. Even tried to make them feel sorry for me and let me off when they stopped at a red light. No go. :-(
At the next stop I was given directions with a wave of the hand, so hurried off in that direction at my usual pace. After a block, things weren't looking so good. Lots of steel doors and graffiti. Occasional person coming in opposite direction. The one comforting fact was a playground with children playing and adults present on my right.
Then it looked like a dead end and on the right was a Tapas bar that was rather crowded. So that is a good sign, right? Wrong. No one speaks English. I walk through and find only one table....a table for four and I get yelled at in Spanish that I cannot sit there because I am one. Go sit at bar! I am told.
Confused, I go over to the bar and look for an empty stool. Only one is next to a man who gets the bartender's attention to give me a menu. My thoughts were that I was very hungry and some gazpacho would be perfect. Bartenders were super busy but I finally got a glass of gazpacho with a straw. Then a local version of paella that was potatoes, fish, and bell peppers, Actually was good. And finally a small beer.
The guy next to me starts talking to me. I could make out something about relationships, Joseph and Mary and a child, but he says he is not Catholic. He kept asking if I am from England, Scotland, or Ireland. When I say the United States he goes on another religious tangent about Santa Cruz, San Jose, etc all being saints. Then it is my hat that becomes the center of his attention. He proceeds into a series of what he thinks are flattering words and wants to know what one calls all of them together in English.
Asks if I am over 50. Do I know of the movie Rumble Fish? Insisted I must see it. Then the Beatles and the way he said it, it sounded like Bittles. So when he started naming them I caught on and he got excited.
He did not speak as loud as many men seem to do in restaurants or bars so along with the bar noise and his minimal English I was unable to hear or understand. Even if could have understood every word I still would have felt as though I was talking to a mental patient.
Where was my money and my purse? On my lap under the napkin.
If you were watching this you would not have known whether to feel sorry for me or burst out in laughter.
I think the bartender felt sorry for me and asked if I wanted the check as I was finishing my beer. Which I did and scooted out of there.
It was not a dead end after all, but a ramp up to another street that I followed. Once on the street I recognized some landmarks and was able to find my way back to the hotel and tried to process what had just happened.
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