Why don’t departure lounges have more plug sockets? It’s incredibly difficult for me to figure out what to be mad about this week. Barcelona is beautiful, and despite the fact I’ve walked 51kms in two days, I’m very relaxed. The weather is perfect. Half of the trees have food growing on them. Every café serves incredible coffee. Bakeries and patisseries are aplenty. The beers are €3. The architecture is eye watering, and thanks to Napoleon, very Parisian. Frankly I’m struggling to find a reason why I don’t live here. I could teach people how to scuba dive and live on cured ham. The cost of living would be cheaper and for a full card in a game of bingo, I wouldn’t have to suffer through any more winters. Sounds like a Charles Perrault novel
To top off all the previously mentioned pros to this city, as if there weren’t enough, there seems to be a massive rock scene in the area and waving the banner at the helm of the rock & metal community is Psycho Rock Bar. This little gaf is just off the beaten path and is covered in a plethora of band posters, stickers, and graffiti. It’s the perfect spot to rock up too as the sun goes down and the street lights turn on. You could spend a fortnight in here listening to The Damned, and smashing beers that cost less than a glass of sparkling water where I live. Like Lizzy a few weeks back, or all dive bars I’ve helped pay the rent and hydro in around the world for that matter, there is naturally a slight language barrier, but I can muddle my way through enough Spanish to get by. Old mate behind the bar had the Estrella flowing and we bonded over our love of British punk bands. I must say though, as much as I love some old school British punk bands, I think America did punk bands better. Oh, I figured out a reason to be mad; Americas.
It’s no secret we live in a harmonized world. We drive similar cars, eat similar foods, wear similar clothes, and listen to similar music. However, in this orchestra of beauty that is giving my eyes indigestion, is it necessary for the dogs at Taco Bell’s head office to stick a franchise against the gorgeous backdrop of yacht's and hand carved stone. Probably for the same reason KFC glued the Cornell to the side of a building next to Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin. Not forgetting of course, despite Spanish being Americas second language, none of them seem to bother learning how to say so much as ola or gracias. I refuse to believe I’m not alone in thinking that this new age style of colonialism, albeit in the form of neon and cash is not necessary at all. The only people vacationing in places like this and eating this shit, are Americans. Taco Bell is the PT Cruiser of the culinary world. A totally bland, unseasoned, uninteresting, serving of gruel that bares striking resemblance to Gandhi’s flip flops. Service is hardly up to the standards of Jean Baptiste either, it’ll likely be thrown at you in a paper bag of disappointment and turned into vomit before long. It’s said that Americans only ever go to war to learn geography, and don't get me wrong, I've had some great times there, but I wish they'd keep their corporate expansionist ploys within the confines of their own borders. You don’t see an Icelandic hotdog stand in Orlando, so please America keep your “Mexican” food to yourselves.
Psycho isn’t the only dive bar in town worth mentioning. Motor Oil is epic if you fancy a cheeky cocktail. Hell Awaits is worth dipping a toe into if you’re in the mood for some heavy metal and Nevermind is perfect if your name is Tony Hawk or Bucky Lasek. They’re all excellent, but there’s something magical about these four walls that make Psycho what it is. A true sacred ground for the renegades and troubadours of Barcelona. I can’t wait to be back, but for right now, I’m jumping on a flight back home to London to catch CrashDïet & The Cruel Intentions. Check ya’s!
6/6.
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