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A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, at a time when Paris Saint Germain was still at risk of relegation to the second division (the ancestor of Ligue 2), we had planned to go to Barcelona. In those bygone days, the capital of Catalonia was not yet the ideal vacation spot for European tourists of all tribes; it still had an exotic allure. But today, faced with hordes of annoying people flocking to Barcelona, the locals protest and organize themselves in committees. Barcelona is the only city in the world (along with Corsica, but Corsica is a special case) where the inhabitants don’t want tourists. They even throw their money at them!
After meeting M. at his place, we headed to Gare Saint Lazare to catch the Talgo train. After half an hour of waiting, we realized that F. and J.M, who were supposed to join us on the platform, probably had an issue on the way.
Once settled in the Talgo train, an operator came to bother us in a language that was a mix of Persian and Spanish. I encountered regionalism for the first time. As a poor Spanish student at high school, I had learned Castilian, but here they spoke Catalan, and they proudly claimed it too.
In front of our bewilderment and dumbfounded faces, the operator grabs a lock of her hair and says, “Blonde, blonde” in English. Crushed by a stroke of genius, M. understood. He confidently replies, “Yes, yes.” Then, F. nonchalantly shows up, saying, “Sorry, guys.” He gives us an explanation that doesn’t hold up, and we let it slide. It’s worth noting that F. had gone to Amsterdam with us two months before, and he had left us at the train station upon arrival. We found him again on the return journey, looking less concerned than usual (probably just fitting in with the local habits). But there were no signs of J.M.
We arrive in Barcelona the next day after spending 50 bucks at that very cool mini-bar where smoking was still allowed back in the early 2000s. Today, taking the Talgo feels like a high-level sport for me due to the smoking ban. We call J.M and then his mother, who hints that J.M “got on the wrong train” and is on his way. We wait for him for two hours at the station.
He arrives, half-dressed like a poorly-prepared tramp, which is unusual for him since he’s usually stylish, and he has no luggage. And then, he spills it all. He was with his girlfriend yesterday, and he arrived too late at the station. Then, the rascal took a train that split at the border, and his belongings remained in the other part of the train. He asks us, “No worries, guys, you’ll lend me some stuff!” To this enthusiastic statement, we respond with “damn,” “shit,” and other versions of “I told you guys to watch the schedules and everything!”
Then, to add to the joy of having breakfast in Barcelona with an unfriendly server and a hot chocolate that looks more like “melted chocolate with a drop of water,” M. asks me if I have the return tickets. For ten minutes, each of us searches for their place, and in the following ten minutes, we blame each other. Twenty minutes later, I head to a telephone booth (I told you we were in the 2000s) and call the station’s dedicated service. Of course, surrounded by German speakers, J.M says, “Z appelle, t’as fait 5 ans d’espagnol” (Z is calling, you did 5 years of Spanish). The result is promising: “Buenos Dias, losta les ticketes, euhh I lost my tickets. Yes the train ticket. I know that, the return Ticket. Yes, I am sure. Ok! Comin’.”
So, J.M and F. head to the apartment we rented in Barcelona, while M. and I embark on an adventure along the train tracks under Barcelona’s devilish sun. We are still friends to this day, and we’ve dubbed this march “la route du martyre” (the martyr’s road), long before Cersei got spat on in Game Of Thrones. After 20 minutes of walking, we reach a working-class area on the train tracks. The guys there laugh at us and return our tickets. We walk calmly for 5 minutes, dreaming of our first night in Barcelona. Then, the railway workers send a dog after us. The beast isn’t monstrous, but it barks fiercely and gets closer and closer. And we run faster and faster. We reach the end and rush into the apartment.
J.M and F. have done the shopping. They’ve bought the essentials: alcohol bottles and pasta. There’s even an incredible chicken fillet. M. and I sit in the room and talk about our night. Like any teenage adults for the past two days, we dream of an idyllic evening, each with three women on our arms, embracing alcohol, in a dreamlike setting à la Scarface (go figure). Then, I take the initiative. We brought a VHS tape with us to make a short film. I hint that if I come back alone tonight, I’ll film my penis, and the image will be included in the final edit. Ultimately, the bet is as dumb as I was at that time. Like father, like son.
After a typical wandering of adolescence in the streets of Barcelona, we arrive at Maremagnum after crossing La Rambla. It’s a cluster of four clubs in one, the party mall reserved for tourists and Spanish girls looking to hook up with tourists. The music is terrible, but after a day like today, we enter the first club as if we’ve passed through hell and reached the Garden of Eden. After three minutes of dancing, a young woman approaches me. That never happens in France. I feel more confident. Then, arrogantly, I walk away. Well, I feel more confident, so of course.
A long journey begins. At first, timid, then influenced by alcohol, I approach all the girls in the club one by one. After about ten “failures,” I start thinking I won’t succeed. So, I leave, wondering why I was so stupid. Years later, when François Hollande tied his fate to a stupid bet (reversing the unemployment trend), he must have felt the same way.
Then, I go back, dance, not caring anymore. After two hours, I feel a hand caressing my back, not too gently. I turn around and see a big 2-meter-tall Australian guy smiling and winking at me at the same time. I make it clear that I’m not interested, and I leave. M. follows me. On the way back, I encounter a rather pushy Ghanaian prostitute who takes me by the arm and offers her services. She wants to “make it with a teen.” I refuse. She accompanies us until Catalunya where we live. Then, she leaves. M. smiles at me, and finally, he says, “Bah de toute façon Z, avec elle ben t’aurais perdu ton pari quand même. Ben ca compte pas” (Well, anyway Z, with her, you would have lost your bet anyway. Well, it doesn’t count). I look at him dejectedly and say, “Yes, you’re right, it doesn’t count.”
