How do I explain my weekend in Barcelona? I don’t really know. When brainstorming this post, I ran a thesaurus search on bizarre. The words are all too fitting:

bizarreOften students studying in Spain brush aside the destination, scribbling its name from their planners. It’s just another Spanish city. Barcelona, however, has its own distinct flavor – it’s neither entirely Spanish nor entirely different. It’s entirely unique.

First of all, the weekend was great. I’m safe. I toured the sights and city must-see’s like Park Güell, La Sagrada Familia, and the Picasso museum. Each stop radiated an equally beautiful yet bizarre energy, modern flares to a historic city. Our hostel perfectly embodied the theme of the weekend: the curious, the offbeat, the unusual. Located directly off of La Rambla, the hostel received a super-star rating from

Now, I know why.

I think that the authors of these reviews are of a similar demographic: the greasy, super chill, Euro-backpacking hippies and hitchhikers. The hostel felt like a 2013 version of Woodstock. The lobby didn’t have normal lighting (oh no, that’d be way too mainstream). Instead, neon red lights illuminated the common room. The guests had their pick of couches: do you want the lip-shaped love seat or the beany bag sack? A couple made-out in the corner, Grungy Brits played pool, and another lovely man behind me received a calf tattoo from his pony-tailed friend. On the loudspeaker, the bartender continued to call out last-minute happy hour specials between 80s rock songs. Two for one beers, kids! He was from Lithuania and looked like Eminem. He proceeded to ask Sarah and I if we were ready to “melt our faces off” at the club that night. We kindly declined.

To lower the price, we chose a mixed four-person rooming assignment. In our minds, we could handle any two people for two nights. If they’re freaky, it’s only two nights. If they’re cool, it’s a win-win situation. Mid-way through day one, we met our roommates – two French guys who I named Pierre and Jean-Paul. In that their English was just about as good as my French (which is non-existent), we communicated in SpanishSarah and I didn’t see much of Pierre and Jean-Paul that weekend. They were MIA at night and slept through the afternoon. I figure they spent some time with Lithuanian Eminem.

Again and again, it’s all about the stories.

Oh, Barcelona, what am I going to do with you.

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