Though truthfully my non-Barcelonan arse is too old fashioned (not to mention just plain too old) to get with the program of regularly carousing till da breakadawn on a school night, for now the discussion of last Friday's action (the final day of this year's RMBA) is superseded by the coda to Thursday night's revelry (which, naturally, took place Friday morning). With our posse on Ramblas, having won the war of attrition with Fellini's business hours, the freaks are out in full force - gypsies, tramps, and thieves curb servin' their wares, tryna make a Euro outta fifteen pence. The stench of urine is inescapable. A funky tranny grabs the arm of an unsuspecting passing tourist and traipses up the ave. to the catcalls of the mob milling about.
Meanwhile my stomach growls like a Young Jeezy ad-lib, informing my brain the time is right for grub. Only the cold samosas and sewer-chilled beers being pushed by the circulating swill merchants sound about as appealing right now as sitting through the extended remix of Wolfgang Voigt's Gas. (I'll pass.)
I desperately want another mystery-meat-schwarma-kebab-wrap-thingy like the one I'd enjoyed the night (okay, technically morning) before. (That was moments before being subjected to the sight of a classy young lady copping a squat and taking a leak in the alley adjacent Moog, but I digress.) Apparently, however, I've left my compass back at the hotel and am clueless as to my whereabouts. Damned ancient-ass streets...
"Yo, where's the falafel spot from last night?" I ask "Hungry Like tha"-Wulf G.
"I sink ze place is closed," he mumbles while shooing away a horny drunk man who's asked to stroke his hair. I notice local gig coordinating grand poobah Nebo lurking nearby smoking a fag (pause) and repeat the question.
"Probably closed at this hour," he says apologetically, exhaling cancerous clouds.
Resigned to my limited choices I flag down a guy carrying a cardboard box and cough up the coin for a wedge of deep-fried-godknowswhat. Cold, stale, and flavorless, the heinous triangle ridicules me with its utter disgusting-ness as I angrily chew. After four bites (admittedly nearly the whole thing) I deposit it in the trash where it belongs.
"You should try a sandwich!" radio squad-leader Yannick suggests perkily, brandishing a slim baguette like a billy-club. This time I accost a woman (at least I think it's a woman) with a cardboard box and complete the transaction. The sandwich - some sort of salami concoction, I suppose - is a step up from the samosa. But that's akin to saying getting punched in the face a few times is a step up from being stabbed in the neck with a rusty screwdriver. In the words of Paul Westerberg:
Look me in the eye/ Then tell me that I'm satisfied.
As our crowd slowly begins collectively moving up the street back towards our respective lodgings, my mellow my man Gerd (H-here we go - Gerrrrd up!) suggests we walk around the block to a "sandwich place" someone's recommended. I sheepishly follow, thinking I could probably use the exercise. Then ta-dow! Turning left off the main drag, what should I see illuminated in the distance but, yup, the same cotdamn falafel spot I've been inquiring about this whole freakin' time - a gastronomic oasis in the midst of this shit food desert. Only one small problem: I'd already just overzealously consumed what essentially amounted to two meals in the span of four-minutes-and-some-seconds and wasn't even remotely hungry anymore.
Shit. Damn. Motherfucker!
It's moments like these that truly test an individual's character. Do you do the mature thing and abstain from indulging in something bad for you that you can't possibly enjoy? Or do you simply "go in" (as the hip-hop folks say) and satisfy your jones on GP - ignoring the results of your recent cholesterol count test - while secretly haboring resentment towards your friends for failing you with poor culinary intelligence reports in your hour of desperation?
It was, of course, a no-brainer.
Twenty-minutes and one completely unnecessary mystery-meat-schwarma-kebab-wrap-thingy later, I can't remember the last time I felt this uncomfortably full - my innards the scorched battleground of a digestive holy war. Thankfully, though, Michael from Austria offers to share a cab home, thus sparing me the certain embarrassment of collapsing on the sidewalk in a crap-food coma as hookers and vagrants empty my pockets and swipe my AH-didas. By the time our motor carriage reaches the Inglaterra I'm not feeling quite so bad (probably the result of also sharing the ride with the homie Max Cole - a whip with the quip guaranteed to lighten any mood).
In fact, as we step out the cab we notice Gerd and another of our colleagues Niklas seated on the doorstep of the conspicuously closed deli across the street, lookin' like stunted adolescents camped out for the new Playstation to go on sale. Apparently, after guiding me to the mystery meat kebab promised land they themselves forsook the spot, opting for a healthier and theoretically wiser choice closer to home. Except Mediterranean Time was proving to be even less reliable than usual. With no deli owner in sight to open up shop they elect to abort their mission. 6am just ain't what it used to be.
I guess sometimes you eat shit or you don't eat at all.
