Is Not Chicago

First official posting from D to the double C. Well hello kiddies, gather round, I´ve got some updates. Dema and I have been sweating our family jewels off wandering around this city. Crazy Town? What´s that you ask. It´s Barcelona and so far it´s not all that it was cracked up to be. In fact, I´ll chalk it up as, *earmuffs for those under 11*, shittiest, well actually craziest part of the trip yet. It all started with leaving Nice. Just as we are about to embark on our overnight voyage to the Promised Land (that´s Barcelona, from what everyone at the hostals say), we happen upon some sweeties from the States. Jason, can attest to this issue we´re having. This had to be around the 3rd or 4th time we did this. Just as we are about to leave, it always happens that our predatorial instincts kick in and we end up sweet talking some charming bella figuras only to have to cut things short and leave for the train to our next destination. When will we learn not to book early.
Anyways back to that train ride. We end up desperately asking the hostal staff to take us to the train depot because chit chatty mc dema and I didn´t budget our time right talking to the girls from the states and catching a bus is hit or miss. So after negotiating a 10 euro ride we´re off. We arrive, we´re hungry and pay way too much for paninis we tried to shove down. The train was filled with loud spaniards, a big, fat sweaty crippled man with his hairy crack hanging out that kept bumping into me, continuous stops, and waking with a scratchy throat, a stiff neck and tired as hell. Off the train and onto the city we hop on the metro to the center of town, and walk down Crazy Street, known as La Rambla. It´s a freakin´circus. People selling birds, chinchillas, chickens, you name it, it´s being sold. There are also the ¨vendors¨that ¨set up shop¨ for maybe 30 seconds and then there off because one of the lookouts spots a cop. I can´t explain the madness. We get to our hostal, unload, and go out to eat. Well Dema the Greek and Derek the Turk get pretty upset when we haven´t fed ourselves, and to our delight, nothing is open. A little siesta and eating the worst tapas ever we head off for night life through the urine filled and stinking streets. Umm, why are we here again? So the first place we hit up looks pretty classy as do we. We enter, the ladies look good, a/c blasting and then we hear it. What´s that their playing, oh yes, good old bop, and jazz from 1963. Welcome to the twilight zone. The music reminded us of Linus from Charlie Brown and the dance moves closely resembled the gang from Charlie Brown getting down. Enough of that, off to the next club. The second club is around 126 degrees inside with all these sweaty euro screwballs with their mullets and fohawks litterally shoving their way to get to a girl to rub on. And if you´re thinking that íts just the euro guys that are crazy, the things these girls were doing, Oh boy. A few drinks later and being the only apparent americans in the place we decide to head home. Well Crazy Street has suddenly turned into Hooker Road. And not the hottie, spanish girl hookers, the black ones fresh off the boat from Africa. Their approach is simple. Grab your arm, ask what you want, tell you how bad they want an american, etc. Apparently no, means keep talking, because I said it over and over again and each time their suggestions got a little more vulgar. I´ll leave out most of the propositions since there are mothers and significant others reading this blog.

Finally ditched the hookers, when an old lady stops me and brian, yells at us for pissing in her streets (which we didn´t do) and then spit towards us. I caught a little of her rabies on my right arm. I replied with some vulgarities and hand gestures and then we booked it home to wash the filth off of us.

To bad I already booked my flight from Barcelona to London otherwise we would have been outtie already.

When will we learn not to book early.