Tonight was one of those nights where you consider yourself the luckiest person on the face of the earth. Scott and I left from Joanic, our metro stop, at about 7:40 to meet up with Laura at school. We picked up Laura, and headed off to Las Ramblas to get Valentina and get to a bar ASAP to pick up the game. After finding Valentina (have you ever spoken to a girl from Italy who picked up an Irish accent on a cell phone?!), we headed to the closest bar. We were S.O.L. Every single bar with a TV was packed. What were we thinking?! Showing up to the biggest game Spain has ever seen about 10 minutes before the start... come on.
We wound our way through the streets trying to find ANY bar with a TV visible. Laura was asking all shop keepers for directions but everywhere we went was full. We found a bar hidden away in an alcove but on our way in, three blonde boys looked at us and shook their heads "no". "No room?" I said. "Nah," he answered, "and it's about 50 degrees." Shit, I thought while sweating through my shirt 50 degrees is fantastic. It took me a minute to realize he had a New Zealand accent and was speaking in terms of Celsius, which would make it well over 100 F. He looked nice enough, "We're looking for a bar," I said, "wanna join?" "Sure thing!" they answered.
After speaking during our hunt, we realized they didn't speak a lick of Spanish. Upon realizing they were with 4 Spanish teachers they reacted as if they found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. "Yea," said Laura, "you hit the jackpot kids".
We wound our way through a million streets until we stumbled upon the tiniest bar with just the right amount of space left in front of the TV before it hit capacity. We jammed ourselves in the doorway, ordered our beers, and were watching within the first 15 minutes. There were no seats but we were just as content to stand in the heat. One of the New Zealanders, Edward, kept asking me for "soccer" terms in Spanish. Such as, "Come on!" and "Let's go!" I taught him "¡Venga!", the most common term for "Come on man!" and he repeated it incessantly through out the first half. "Venga! venga! venga!" was always in my ear. But I had to laugh because all the locals were getting a kick out of it. I taught him "¡Vamos!" for the second half but just as quickly grew tired of that.
We were all having a great time. They ate up Valentina and her Irish-Italian accent. Edward would frequently tease her "What was it like growing up in Ireland?" and Valentina would instantly burst into a laugh. We were enjoying ourselves but always conscious of the looming game. Germany was chosen to win and we were nervous. Even throughout the "¡Vengas!" and the laughs these initiated, we were all a little on edge... until the goal. When the goal came the bar erupted. People were hugging, high-fiving; the street was as loud as a stadium - and all was well within the country.
The game ended and we exited the bar to find ourselves at the Irish bar in town - Flaghertys. There were still a few Germany stragglers but, for the most part, it was Spanish fans and we had a seat among them. At our table sat 2 Americans, 3 New Zealanders (Kiwis), an Italian and a Canadian... and we all sat in harmony talking about our previous and current travels and the funny anecdotes we picked up among them. Our most controversial, yet hilarious, conversation was when I accidently said the word "bathing suit". I knew this name wasn't widely accepted throughout the world but I never thought it would create the rise out of the Kiwis that it did. They were doubled over in laughter. "Bathing suit!?", said Damien, "What the hell is a bathing suit!" Turns out, Kiwis call them "toggs" or "boardies". In turn, we laughed at them for such STUPID names for a bathing suit. This lead to the discussion of sandals vs. flip-flops (which they call thongs) and I had to open their eyes to the fact if they asked me to see my "thongs", I would immediately refer to underwear and become offended. This led to the conversation of the "awkward turkey" in the room and I put that video up on facebook.... it was a moment that made us all universal.
Eventually, the 12 am metro closure became a reality and we started walking with our Kiwis to the metro. That's when we stumbled upon some of the celebrations (see video) that were unlike any others I've ever seen before. It was like the Puerto Rican day parade on steroids. People on each others shoulders, half naked, chanting through the streets; while the apartments up above threw buckets of water on the celebration. It was unreal. Spain had never gone this far in the World Cup and they were so proud. We were in the middle of it all but knew we had a deadline approaching.
Scott and I took the Kiwis to the metro and let them sneak through the turn tables on our pass. The Kiwis were hippies and had no place to stay, let alone any money to spend on a metro. We separated at our stops with a few high fives, kisses on the cheeks and memories to last a life time. It was one of those moments when you realized just exactly why you took yourself out of your element to travel to a foreign country... and why it was so important to do exactly that.
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