A pit stop in Barcelona

I had never slept like that before, folded onto myself like a ham and cheese omelet, slumped over on an airport chair, elbows on my knees and forehead on my forearms. THAT’S how tired I was right before flying back to Barcelona.

Not just tired. Hungry, too. And the only thing to eat at the Athens airport was McDonald’s. I stepped up to the counter and told myself that if I ordered something not available in the U.S. or Argentina, that’d at least provide a measure of redemption. So I got the McFarm. It looked like a double cheeseburger in the picture. Turns out, it’s two greasy sausage patties crammed inside a bun. Thanks a lot, Greece, for the worst McDonald’s experience of my life.

The next day or two were spent in recovery, in a state of on-and-off hibernation, like when your computer goes into sleep mode. We’d take naps at random times during the day and wandered around in a daze. It wasn’t until our second full day back in Barcelona that strange and wonderful things started happening around us once again.

 

THE ELEPHANT MAN

We were walking toward the beach, towels draped over our shoulders, when Chotchsky froze in his tracks.

“Look at THAT guy,” he said.

“Where?” I said, scanning the sidewalk.

“Behind us.”

“What, that old guy?” I asked. “He’s just getting water…in his underwear…his tattooed underwear?”

Yep. This old man was wandering around buck naked, wearing nothing but white knee-high socks and an underwear tattoo. I could see his wrinkly butt from where I stood.

“Wait. Was his penis tattooed too?” I asked Chotchsky.

“I didn’t get to see,” he said.

Well, that was that. We talked for a while about how painful it must be to get your penis tattooed, assuming that was what had happened, and laughed about it some more and went on our way.

About a week later (I went to Morocco and back during this period of time) we saw him again, praise the Lord. We were coming up the subway stairs and there was his rear again, on La Rambla. We were elated. First item of business: get a clear photo.

Done. Then, of course, there was the question of the front. We argued like schoolgirls about who should run up ahead of him and take a look. Neither of us wanted to stare at shriveled old-man penis, but someone had to take one for the team.

Thankfully, other tourists solved this problem for us. Tattooed underwear guy noticed some camera flashes going off to his side and turned around and posed, giving us full view of his genitalia.

He was enormous. Elephantiasic. His baby arm was swinging in the wind, his face denoting complete boredom or nonchalance, as in, “why are you people taking photos of me? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

Then he turned around and continued on his way.

“Oh my God,” I said.

“Yeah,” agreed Chotchsky.

“Did you see if it was tattooed?” I asked. “I had to turn away.”

“Me too.”

“Crap. I’ll tell you one thing, though. If I had a dick like that, I’d walk around naked, too.”

Conclusion: We’ll never know the truth.

What we do know, however, is that this man is something of a local celebrity. We were talking to our Canadian friend Mark over a happy-hour game of pool at the hostel, trying to describe this guy, and Mark’s face lit up right away.

“You mean the Elephant Man?” he said. “Hell yeah I’ve seen him!”

 

FUN IN THE SUN

The beaches in Barcelona are overrun with Pakistani vendors. It’s like a plague. They offer: beverages (“Cervezabeeraguacola! Cervezabeeraguacola!”), henna tattoos (“Henna henna! Henna Henna!”), knockoff sunglasses (“Glasses my friend! Gafas my friend!”), drugs (“You want hashish? You want marijuana?”), samosas (“Samosas!”) and my personal favorite, coconut slices. Not because of the taste, which is bland, but because of the call (“Daru-daru-daru-daru!”), which sounds like something out of Mork and Mindy.

They’ll tell you that beer is 2 euros and water is 1.50, but don’t believe them. With a little wagering, you can get them down to 1.50 and 1, respectively. Or get your own six-pack at the supermarket that’s a two-minute walk away.

As the self-appointed supervisor of fiscal responsibility, I volunteered to get up and bring a six-pack of Estrella. When I got back, Chotchsky was stretched out face-down on his towel.

“Cerveza beer agua cola!” I said as I walked over.

No reaction.

“Cerveza beer agua cola!” I yelled again, in his face, this time plopping the six-pack by his side.

“NO, THANKS!” he answered angrily.

When he sensed I wasn’t leaving, he looked up.

“Oh, it was you. I thought you sounded different from the other guys.”

Accompanying us that day at the beach was Ben a.k.a. Classic Dingus, of Berlin fame. Coincidentally, he was also staying at Kabul, and we overlapped for one night.

Aside from being great company, Classic Dingus is also very willing to enter our completely inane discussions, leading to gems like this one, from the time when I was considering getting a piercing.

“If you get a piercing with me, I’ll do it,” I said to Chotchsky.

“I’ll get a piercing if you get a Prince Albert,” he replied.

“I’ll get a Prince Albert if YOU get a Prince Albert,” I said, raising the stakes.

“I’ll get a Prince Albert if Ben gets a Prince Albert,” he countered.

We both turned to stare at Classic Dingus.

“Um, no,” he said, very seriously. “I don’t want to be setting off the metal detector every time I fly.”

That was the end of the great, short-lived Prince Albert Experiment.

 

MJ IS NO MORE

Where were you when you found out Michael Jackson was dead?

Were were at our Barcelona hostel, Kabul, fresh off a pre-club nap. It was 1:45 a.m. and we were gathering at the bar to head out to Razzmatazz, one of the more popular local hotspots. I walked downstairs and Chotchsky was waiting by the plasma screen.

“Look,” he said, gesturing toward the TV.

The bottom of the screen said: "Michael Jackson, dead at 50.”

My first instinct was to think that this was a prank by Chotchsky. Very funny. Then again, how’d he get inside the TV? No, that was logistically impossible. Maybe it’s April Fool’s Day? In June?

And then it finally hit me.

“Holy shit,” I said, eloquently. “Holy shit.”

“Prepare for weeks of nonstop MJ coverage,” I added.

I tried to grasp the magnitude of the moment. I couldn’t.

So I just forgot about it and went clubbing.

 

THE SERIAL PISSER

There are many ways to wake up in the morning when you are sharing a room with twelve people. The best, by far, is when something so outrageous happens that it completely upsets the natural balance of the  room and everyone’s so flabbergasted and loud that sleep becomes impossible.

Case in point: The Great Frisbee Incident. The day before the Great Frisbee Incident, we had entered our room and found two extra mattresses on the floor. Great, we thought. More people. One of the bodies that was to sleep on the mattress was a pale, slim American kid with glasses, most certainly still college-aged. His mattress had been carefully placed at the far end of the room, amid two bunk beds that were currently taken by four British girls.

That night was the Razzmatazz night. We had some drinks, nothing out of the ordinary.

I woke up to intense laughter the next morning around 10 a.m. Still in my boxers, I slouched to my locker, which was at the end of the room, where all the commotion was coming from.

Turns out, the skinny kid sleeping on the floor had awoken in the wee hours of the morning and urinated into the four British girls’ frisbee. No joke. There it was. A red frisbee, brimming with pee. I started convulsing with laughter along with everyone else. People were sitting up in their beds, cracking up.

That’s when the skinny kid awoke – the four girls laughing down at him, the rest of the room abuzz with the story.

He wasn’t happy.

“Every fucking time!” he yelled.

We all lost it. No one was going back to sleep after that one.

The culprit picked up the sloshing frisbee and carried it out to the bathroom for cleansing, decorating our floor with drops of urine along the way.

Man, I love this hostel.