My high-school Spanish teacher junior and senior year had a big influence on my continuation of Spanish study and ultimately coming here for full on immersion. His passion for the language, culture and history of his destination summer home carried those who chose to continue on to AP classes on to further discovery. After our grueling (and quite honestly comical) exam, he had us paint a mural of iconic Spanish festivals like La Tomatina tomato fight in Buñol and San Fermín running of the bulls in Pamplona. He would arrange the classroom to resemble Las Ramblas in Barcelona, choosing each student to represent a different landmark from the port and Christopher Columbus’ statue to the Museo de Picaso and his favorite restaurant, Els Quartre Gats, to iconic Antonio Gaudí structures like Parque Güell and Casa Batlló. 

I bring this up because his inspiration manifested itself finally in my trip to Barcelona last weekend, as every monument I saw and historical fact I was reminded of brought me back to Mr. Hodum’s class. So if you are out there reading this, professor, thank you for your hard work and dedication, because you got me here. It was that and my parents’ generosity, which is why I was so excited and touched to have them start their Spanish visit in this truly unique city. I was also able to see one of my oldest friends, who I first met in mommy-and-me playgroup and continued a friendship throughout high school and our college years across the east coast, who is studying there for the semester.

My parents, Carly, and I went for tapas that night before we started our jam-packed site-seeing schedule. The four of us sitting together over a glass of Cava (the Spanish champagne) in another country after all that time was pretty surreal. Afterward Carly took me to DOW Jones, a New York-themed establishment whose drink prices went up and down throughout like the stock market, until the red siren sounded signaling the crash, when everything went down to a Euro.

The next day my parents and I headed from the hotel down the road to Casa Mila, another Gaudí designed apartment with a wavy rooftop terrace and spectacular view of the city (that last phrase will be repeated often throughout this post.) We waited and waited and waited to get into Gaudí’s Sagrada Familia cathedral, probably one of the most spectacular buildings I have ever seen (and it won’t even be done until 2020, 100 years after its construction began), and it was well worth the wait. You think you know how the sight of the towers, and intricate sculptures of the nativity scene and the striking stained-glass will hit your senses, but it is almost too much to process as you try to crane your head back far enough to take it all in. We took the elevator halfway up one of the towers, and had to take the claustrophobic, narrow, spiraling, never-ending staircase back down. I think you can imagine my delight when we finally got the hell out of there. 

Next on the itinerary was Parque Güell. Any tour guidebook would tell you to take the bus or taxi to the front entrance after you get off the metro, rather than walk and follow the signs. When you choose the latter route, you climb up a steep hill, followed by ridiculous escalators, to the side entrance including a natural hike, with you guessed it, a spectacular view of the city. As we continued our hike I kept thinking, where are the arches? Where are the mosaics? Where is the Whoville village that I had been imagining? After taking a winding trail back down the hill we started to hear music and see more and more tourists congregating, so we figured we were on track. When we finally made it to the iconic view of the ginger-bread-house-esque architecture and vibrant patios, we let out another sigh of relief. Another site seen with minimal strife.

We then met up with Carly again, who walked us down to Barcelona’s main port, with all the markets, the massive boats, and most importantly, Cristobal Colón, taking in all his glory, pointing to his hometown of Genoa, Italy, rather than the Americas, which we Americans would so ethnocentrically believe. Though a bit cold and windy, my parents were troopers through it all, and after an impossibly filling Italian feast, they allowed their jetlag to take over. Meanwhile, Carly took me to Chupitos, the famous shots bar with hundreds of spectacle-oriented shots to choose from. Since it was more crowded than usual, we decided to just stay for a couple of “boy scouts” and a “finding nemo.” They involved roasted marshmallows, whipped crème, and M&M’s, and were of course more delicious than strong. We then went to the discoteca strip down by the water, and chose Catwalk, with half of the clientele dressed in costume for Carnavale, while the other half could not care less. 

Our final day consisted of taking the funicular air tram up to Montjuïc, the ancient fortress on top of “Mount of the Jews,” the Olympic stadium of 1992, and finally, a stroll along Las Ramblas for lunch and people watching. We even got to see the “Sardanas” danced outside the Cathedral, which takes place every sunday. One of the dancers came up to us when he heard we were speaking English, and told us, quite slowly, how his daughter was much smarter than him and studying neurobiology in Florida. But when he asked where I was studying, he pretended not to have heard of that place called Madrid. Keeping a mental note of that for my discussion on the autonomous regions of Spain during my midterm tomorrow.

My parents then spent Monday touring Alcala, which totally charmed my parents in its quaint small-town feel, complete with everything randomly closing on Mondays (remember what I said about making plans?). But they got to see some school children celebrating Carnavale, and a band playing in Plaza de Cervantes. And though they couldn’t go in to his birthplace, as it was of course the only day the museum was closed, my dad got to pose most-cheesily with Don Quijote y Sancho Panza just outside. They then ventured to Sevilla and Granada and were greeted by rain. At least they enjoyed some sunny weather in Madrid walking through Puerta del Sol and Plaza Mayor.

The same couldn’t be said for Toledo, the coldest of their visit, though not the rainiest. However, my parents felt they came, they saw, they conquered. (Hmm, sounds like payback Ferdinand and Isabela.) We went to Bardemcilla for raciones, a restaurant that actually did turn out to be owned by Javier Bardem’s family, after I nonchalantly told my friend where she should meet us, describing the name as Bardem, like the actor, with “cilla” at the end. I also took them to San Ginés chocolatería for churros and chocolate, which is supposed to be the best in the country, nay the world, and el restaurante Botín, which currently holds the Guinness World Book of Records’ title for oldest and longest-running restaurant, since 1729. Francisco de Goya was a waiter there, and Ernest Hemingway even gave it the star treatment, choosing it as the proposed rendezvous locale for Jake and Lady Brett in The Sun Also Rises. Only the best for the people who gave me life, which they do often feel the need to remind me in certain moments post-teen angst.