My First and Most Beautiful Adventure: A First Time Traveller’s Experience In Barcelona
A recount of my first ever trip abroad. Features new friends, good food and unforgettable memories.
The effort it takes to move my body is immense. It’s still dark outside and will continue to be for a long time yet. The body next to me stirs, the groan it makes reminding me why we’re perhaps the only two people now awake at this hour. Because while my desire to be fast asleep, like most normal people are at half three in the morning, is strong, I am awake because today marks the first time I will leave the country and go on holiday.
The idea came but a month ago when I received a message from my long-time best friend, whom I have only lived nine days on this planet without, saying: “Do you want to do something rouge?” Cheap flights were promptly booked, mini toiletries were excitedly brought and all thoughts of work became more bearable with the promise of an upcoming escape. Much to my surprise, considering my often anxious predisposition that sees my heart beat at pace, my mind begin to swim and my nights become restless, the four-day trip I had signed up for gave me no qualms. When I thought about the holiday, all thoughts were dominated by excitement of the unknown as opposed to my usual default of fear. Even as the departure date grew ever closer, the emotions bubbling up in my stomach were positive. As I dutifully packed my cabin bag, rolling my underwear and dresses into as small a packages as they would go to fit all my desired cargo into the tiny holdall we were permitted to take without paying extra for luggage, I was thankful the constrictive tightening of my chest that usually appeared when preparing for new things continued to remain at bay.
And then there we were. Driving along a deserted M25, windows cracked as a breakfast of cigarettes and generous sips of sugary tea brought us somewhat to life. It now seems like a blur; parking the car, waiting for the shuttle bus, walking back to the car to double check it was locked, actually getting on the shuttle bus and arriving at the airport doors. Thanks to the early hour and the fact it was off-season for many popular destinations, the building was far from crowded and much more relaxed than I had imagined it would be. A selection of the mini toiletries I so enjoyed buying were promptly thrown away when presented with the tiny plastic bag they were all meant to fit into. My previous short-lived Tetris obsession helped somewhat in manoeuvring the bottles but some sadly perished.
After yet more tea and an overstimulating walk through the circus that is duty-free, I suddenly found myself faced with the plane that would carry me over land and sea. A small jolt of dulled fear made its way up my legs, leaving my toes tingling and joints ever so slightly aching. “Can’t back out now,” said my friend, sensing the sudden change in my stature. I looked around at the dark sky, the vast expanse of tarmac and the metal gates sealing us into the area. The realisation that there was nowhere to go but onto the plane settled me, the thought process going somewhat like this:
‘There’s no place to go but onto the plane, so I have to go onto the plane. There is no other option to consider. The decision has been made and now I have to do it.’
A slight panic washed over me when the plane began moving and I realised that I had not tapped the body while stepping through the door as a friend told me you should for good luck, but I had the window seat and gave the inside of the glass a quick tap, assuring myself that this would be enough. It was and, two hours of surprisingly deep sleep later, I was in Barcelona.
Despite it being off-season, the beating Barcelona sunshine, enhanced tenfold by the dreary winter weather of England in February, welcomed us immediately. Waiting for the bus that our phones promised would take us in the right direction, coats and jumpers were thrown off and sunglasses covered squinting eyes. Even from the crowded bus, the city boasted stunning views. We drove past imposing mountains, through towns of thoughtfully built flat blocks with plants overflowing from balconies, and came to a stop in front of an impossibly tall statue situated on a roundabout filled with an abundance of trees.
For all my excitement, I had never managed to picture Barcelona in my mind, unsure of how much one place could differ from the next and truly look unlike anywhere I had previously known. Blame my previous lack of travelling, but anyone coming from anywhere would be awestruck at the beauty of Barcelona. The eye is drawn in every direction; up to the tops of the palm trees lining busy streets, down to the engraved paving tiles bringing pattern to an otherwise only practical surface, side to side to take in the bold architecture of painted buildings, oversized shuttered windows and ornamental doors. The practical is elevated to purposeful, each necessary object transformed into breathtaking sculpture demanding attention for its simple beauty.
A visit to the hostel released us of our luggage and dropping into a cafe where hammocks sat in place of chairs filled our stomachs. The exploration quickly continued. Unable to wait, Barcelona’s most iconic tourist spot was our first stop. Walking out of the metro station, climbing the stairs and avoiding the oncoming foot traffic, the monument is out of sight. You’re instead welcomed by magazine stands, street vendors flogging various memorabilia, and a crowd so large it seems impossible to penetrate. Coming to your senses, moving out of the station’s entrance and turning around, the imposing building snaps into view — right into view. Separated by a narrow road, you stand, neck craned, in front of Gaudi’s pride and joy; La Sagrada Familia.
Neither words nor pictures can encapsulate the essence of the building. We stood taking it in for hours. Walking silently around the perimeter, eyes travelling as fast as the train that brought us here, and still missing details that would be picked up on later visits. British politeness meant we stopped a multitude of times, offering to take photos for other tourists so the whole family could be in the pictures. We sat both in the park on the north side of the building, appreciating its front facade, and in the park on the south side, viewing the differing art on the building’s older side. A few more laps around the exterior, with extended arms and pointed fingers drawing each other’s attention to a newly found element of design, enhanced the initial amazement and extended our stay far past that of the Instagram-minded travellers we’d observed posing quickly before moving onto the next delight on offer.
The growing crowds drew us into the backstreets. Exhaustion was settling in. The 3am start, the weariness of travel and the excitement of a new country was making our bodies and minds heavy. A visit to the surprisingly tourist-free Arc de Triomf brought relief, the park just down from the monument offering a much needed space to relax and soak up some sun. Sweets and sugary drinks were sourced at the supermarket, fuelling the delirious conversation that went along the lines of;
‘I just can’t believe we’re here’
‘Neither can I’
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’
‘It’s stunning’
‘Stunning’
…
‘I just really can’t believe we’re here.’
After an uneventful nights sleep in the hostel, chocolate croissants and coffee from one of Barcelona’s more than a thousand bakeries served as breakfast. The sheer amount of bakeries is a highlight of the city for someone as obsessed with pastries and hot drinks as I am — nearly every third storefront serves a selection of breads, cakes and pastries. We headed to the tree lined La Rambla, one of Barcelona’s most famous pedestrianised streets that runs through the heart of the city. The boulevard is home to a whole host of stalls selling all kinds of enticing memorabilia, but we were on a deadline heading to the starting point of today’s excursion; the Barcelona City Bike Tour.
Alongside a family from Long Island, a couple from Manhattan, a pair of fellow Englishmen and a solo traveller from Arizona, we navigated the narrow back streets of the city’s Gothic Quarter, taking in the buildings as they passed. We returned to both La Sagrada Familia and the Arc de Triomf, adding the beach, Barcelona Cathedral, Placa Reial, Placa de Sant Jaume, the Palace of Catalan Music and Basílica de Santa Maria del Mar to our list of visited hotspots.
With windswept hair, a satisfying ache pulsing through our legs, and the glow of post-exercise, we dismounted the bikes and headed to meet with a group of other travellers we’d been chatting to on Hostel World. We went into the meeting with the neutral stance of ‘If they’re cool, they’re cool. If they’re not, we can run pretty fast anyway.’ Despite understandably awkward introductions, the now seven-strong group was acquainted. Thankfully, the five random people we’d connected with turned out to be some of the sweetest, coolest, and most like-minded people I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet. The decision was quickly made to head up to Turó del Carmel, which is essentially a massive hill, so we would have a good view of the evening’s sunset.
Little did we know how difficult a trek it would be to the top of Turó del Carmel. We saw it as an achievement that we didn’t lose a single group member while on the metro and when we were met with a road so steep its path was actually a staircase, we naively thought this would make up the majority of the necessary climb.
Walking up a vertical path is a great bonding experience. When we got halfway, an obligatory, and very sweaty, group photo marked the occasion. Supplies were brought at a corner shop we passed; beers, Oreos and tequila being the only necessities for everyone else, a bottle of water and selection of sugary sweets being mine. The climb continued. And continued. And continued. When we were forced to stop, breathless and perhaps a little lost, we appeared to be in a spot not designed for tourists. The area resembled someone’s back garden, with a makeshift wooden shed and a few abandoned vehicles finishing the scene and beginning speculation around what headlines may be used if we all never return from this trip. The gentle strums of a guitar drew us a little further up the hill, with me allowing others to go first and scope out the scene before following slowly. The guitar player confirmed we were in the right spot and encouraged us to climb the final few feet of the hill. The ground was not solid; sand and small loose rocks made finding your footing a dangerous task but, upon reaching the hilltop, all thoughts of the treacherous journey were replaced by awe at the beauty of our destination.
From our vantage point we could see the entirety of Barcelona. Every angle brought new views of the city, its architectural pinnacles clear even from so far away. Silence fell over the group as we took in the sight, each person turning in circles to capture the full scope of the moment in memory. The sun set as we sat on the rocky surface, getting to know each other and already forming inside jokes despite not knowing each other mere hours earlier.
The executive decision was made to get down from the hill before the blackness of night, paired with the added element of unstable drunkenness, made the task impossible. Though we found a somewhat safer route to get off the hill than the one we took up, the large drops and rocky ‘path’ still left my legs shaking and my hands gripping onto whoever was both in front and beside me at any given moment.
A quick shout of ‘Marco’ and the returning ‘Polo’ located the group’s two stragglers and conversation kept flowing easily. A vastly more simple route back into the centre of the city was found, pizzas were consumed and we all hit the cocktail bar, meeting up with another traveller on the way to bring our group to one of eight. As the gong signalled last orders, the group packed up, made promises to meet up the following morning and headed to the various hostels we were all staying in.
Walking around unfamiliar streets to reach an unfamiliar destination in the middle of the night as two lone young women is normally a frightening experience. But the Barcelona streets were still heaving, with various cafes, bars and clubs all spilling both people and light out into the darkness. It was oddly comfortable. The usual soul sucking fear of unwanted propositions that seem to accompany the setting sun was nowhere to be felt. Instead, the walk home was pleasant, though the wake up call of 6am the following day hung in the back of my mind and seemed less and less likely with each passing minute.
Miracles do happen. Five out of the group’s eight managed to wake up and get to the beach before the sun rose. Already feeling more confident with the city’s public transport [which is impeccably designed and sign posted by the way] we got the bus. Arriving while the sky was still pitch black and a few of last night’s club goers were still on their way home, the sea was an imposing mass of freezing water that looked less than inviting. Cuddled in coats and sitting on rented hostel towels, we waited for the inklings of light promising a new day. As we stripped off, jumping on the sand and giving our faces a few psyched up slaps, into the sea we ran. I hit the brakes when the water reached my waist, my body deciding for me that this was far enough, and I watched on as the others dove in full frontal. Watching the pink orb of a sun appear from the horizon, I stood in the water and battled with the thought that all of this had been a dream.
Later in the day, after getting a spontaneous tattoo, we visited the famous La Boqueria Market. Ignoring the slightly disturbing meat and seafood displays in favour of focusing on the bright and colourful fruit on show, we tried various snacks and picked up a few souvenirs from the surrounding stores. For the third day in a row, we found ourselves at La Sagrada Familia, meeting up with the rest of the group for gelato — as they say, when in Spain.
A bump in the road of an otherwise impeccable trip, the friend I was travelling with suddenly became ill — very ill. Popping into the first pharmacy we found on our way back to the hostel, we broke through the language barrier with hand signals and managed to get her some tablets for the pain. The illness showed no signs of letting up, with my friend encouraging me to go out on my own and not let this setback ruin the rest of my trip. For someone who has never travelled before, who has never left the country with anyone, who has never been in a foreign city with family or friends let alone on my own, I surprised myself with the ease I managed to walk about. Just like the evening prior, the streets felt welcoming, comfortable, and I walked around aimlessly, following buildings I liked the look of and not basing my decisions on much else. How freeing.
The final day. Thankfully, after a lie in cut short at the realisation of an early check out, the previous day’s illness had somewhat lifted. We packed up and shipped out, the last obligatory bakery visit savoured in the morning sun. Hesitant to wander too far and risk missing our flight home, we ventured back to the city’s Gothic Quarter, popping in and out of the various store fronts that caught our eye and parting with our last few euros. One cow bell later, a weird memento but one I immediately cherished, we sat at the harbour, breaking off chunks of baguette and reminiscing on our time in Barcelona. The trip felt like it lasted a lifetime, as if we’d been born in this city we arrived in only three days before. Simultaneously, the time had passed in a microsecond, us not yet being ready to give up the holiday mindset and return to the mundane everyday.
But we boarded the flight, begrudgingly listened to the pilot announce our destination was “wet and drizzly,” promising “temperatures of 7°C,” and sat back as we watched the mountainous terrain below us grow ever smaller.
