Back from a month in Spain. First let’s talk Ibiza…
I didn’t know what to expect. I’d booked a hotel room (a double but for just me) for a great rate since I booked in January. 30 euro a night for each of three nights and 50 for the last (don’t know why, it was a Sunday). I’d already spent four days at the beach on the North Coast of Spain, in Bakio close to Bilbao and San Sebastian, so I wasn’t screaming “Need beach” but when I arrived it was a given that I was going to start a tan like a lot of these bronzed Italian and Spanish gym boys. Incidentally, not enough of them were gay for me to even notice. It was a smorgasbord for all. Yeah, there were plenty of beautiful girls there too, though I didn’t notice them much.
Of course, with all these ripped gym bodies all around, one of the first things I did was find a gym, run and owned by of course, a gorgeous bronzed ripped guy, of French origin. He cracked me up because every time I’d cuss in Spanish or say the word “whore” he’d get embarrassed and utter “Madre mía” meaning “mother of mine.” I like oxymorons – huge guy who gets shocked by little foul-mouthed chick.
I hit the gym every day I could, with a great view of course, of the whatever body of water is there in Ibiza (I don’t pay attention to such things – is it a sea or ocean? Whatev).
Enjoyed myself thoroughly at the opening party of Pacha, formerly my favorite club in Barcelona before it shut down, though now it’s been replaced by a kick-ass club called Oshum I have yet to set foot in… next time I’ll have to check it out.
It was sardine-can packed, so I stayed away from the booze – plus, the darned bartendress wouldn’t serve me – seems like if you’re not bald, you’re not going to order as many drinks so you’re not worth her time. When it started to get reasonable, a guy who worked there, handsome Victor from Sitges outside of Barcelona with big innocent eyes, told me about some other rooms, so I got myself a juice in one of those, and this gorgeous black female DJ in awesome distinctive fishnets gave me a gift. But mostly, it was a juice and hang-out-with-Victor night.
More later. Just going to say: Viva Italia!!
Roma, you suck, but you coulda been cool
So I neglected to rant about my April trip to Rome. This is probably because I’d returned to Barcelona and successfully washed Rome off of me in the Catalan city I call “where my heart is.” Pardon the euphemism.
After I arrive in the slut I call Rome, I take a loudly-squeaking, graffiti-covered train – think of an old lady in metal form – and then get ripped off by a seemingly warm-hearted taxi driver. “Oh, your first time in Rome, eh?” – which in Italian means “I am going to rape your wallet, but with a huge smile on my face.” He even asked what I was doing so far on the other side of the city, when in actuality the train station and my hostel were on the same side and it was a mere five-minute drive from the station. The meter he was using was very odd – no decimals – and was completely different from any other meter I saw for the rest of my trip.
I pay the damned 20 euros – though it should have been about 8 – because I just want to get to my hotel, dammit. So, bye, a-hole. Hello, f-ing Rome.
My hotel, Hotel Lodi, is an oasis in the grime-ridden, tourist-ridden, old-crap-ridden, noodle-ridden hole I call Rome. The hosts are friendly, it has a lovely courtyard, one of the staff just out of the blue cooks lunch for a few of us, and it is outside of the touristy areas.
The rest of my Roman experience is pretty much crap. The spirit that I thought was the core of the Italian existence is missing. It is as if the tourists have sucked the life out of the city. The city is in ruins, not just its old buildings. Because my guy in Barcelona requested it, I take various pictures of famous sights, but I am unimpressed. I had gone there to live like a Roman, but Romans are no fun anymore. Clubs are small – bars are more the norm – and other than the weekend and a few random clubs on a Monday – namely, an American-filled, hip-hop meat market – I’d say the nightlife, not so great. Roman guys are weird-looking in general – kind of Neanderthal or nondescript, and there’s very little variety in food. And guess what? Carbonara is not good for you. Oh, how it hurts!
I had only booked 4.5 days there, but 3 is enough. I frantically Skype–> fail – -> internet –> fail –> call, to get my flight changed so that I can get back to my beloved Barcelona 1.5 days earlier. I pay 100 euros for the favor – more than my original ticket – and escape!
Of course, my experience could have been a lot better had I remembered to contact people via couchsurfing.org, before my laptop started spazzing. After the fact, I saw that there were an impressive % of good-looking Roman couchsurfers who could have made the trip bearable.
ACTUAL GOOD THINGS ABOUT ROME:
1) A drink called a Spritz, which is Campari, sparkling white wine and sparkling mineral water and twist of orange. My first I had at the Caffe Ducati, which on a late Saturday night was sadly one-tenth full. But the drink was nice. Note: Campari by itself is disgusting!
2) Shopping - not the best I’ve seen but I bought a unique leather purse for 40 euros and a comfy, pretty tiered top. Rome had a Fornarina and Stuary Weitzman shop, plus a lovely billboard of Marion Cotillard, one of my top three fave actresses in the world. She’s a mix of gutsy and vulnerable.
3) Amazing starving artists - do you see this dude doing a masterpiece in chalk? Crazy, eh? Here’s a link to him and his fellow artists: http://madonnaripugliesi.blogspot.com/
Dance the night and morning away
Nightclub Apolo, Barcelona
So if you’re a party girl or boy like I am, you’ll appreciate the social network for partiers, Tilllate.com, TILL LATE in English, TEE-YAH-TAY in Spanish, just so you don’t get blank stares like I did. You can see photos taken at the hottest clubs throughout Europe. I’m in one of the pics, but I look a little odd so I’m not going to tell you where to look. I’ll just say May 8.
My favorite clubs in Barcelona are: Space (best on Friday unless you’re a tater-tot – then go on Thursday), La Madame (only on Sunday nights if you’re not a gay man), and Apolo (famed for its inventive Monday mix but great all week). The above crappy pic is one I took at Apolo, but at least it’s authentic. Pacha was my favorite till it shut down but can be found in other international hotspots including Madrid, Ibiza and Manhattan.
Unfortunately, I can’t tell you my favorite clubs in Madrid because I was essentially taken to places and just went with the flow. Ten days out of thirteen I stayed up till 6 or 7 a.m. Yeah, Madrid! Not as fashionable or vain as Barcelona, but they know how to live it up and do it in a laid-back way, kind of like San Francisco with hotter people. It’s a city where beer is a food group. I think I ate one meal a day the whole time I was there. Ask for the drink Tinto de Verano for a beer-substitute – weak, girly, and refreshing. Kapital is worth a visit; it’s the largest meat market I’ve ever seen with its seven floors and as many themes. Just don’t go during a Spanish holiday like I did. Trust me on this.
Clubs in Spain open around 1 a.m., get busy after 2, and close at 5 or 6. Then, you hop on the the metro and you’re good to go. There are after-parties but they’re not for the faint of heart or for the gullible. Lots of drugs, some errant knives and wasted people wielding them – I’ve seen the scars – so beware. Both Madrid and Barcelona are pretty compact and I was in the center of each, so getting to and from wasn’t a big deal or expensive like it can be in Los Angeles and Paris.
I know I need to add a travel section. I’ll get to it, give me some time. Ciao!
