España, numero tres!

I was up and out the door early on Sunday morning to make what was supposed to be a 9:15am flight to Barcelona, only to discover (after first going to the wrong terminal and having to spend four euroes just to get to the right one in the same airport) that my flight had been canceled.  An hour-plus line wait later (during which Andy came and went and departed), I'd been moved to the next available flight...at 6:30 that night.  This was probably the lowest moment of the semester, in retrospect--I was tired and alone and stranded (however temporarily) in a place where I didn't speak the language.  I missed my family and all the traveling really wears on you and it was just time to stop, it felt like.

On the upside, I had plenty to read in the meantime, and the airline gave me vouchers for two meals.  I had a leisurely breakfast and then decided that rather than spending all day sitting in the airport (I didn't have that much to read!), I'd go back into town.  The cathedral and the monastery would be closed on Sunday, but I remembered a popular Sunday flea market that my reliable guidebook had recommended.  Unfortunately, my guidebook was in my already-checked backpack, so I hopped on the Metro and got off near Placa Mayor, hoping for the best.  Things worked out, happily-- I encountered a group of Northeastern students heading to the same place.  A couple of them had maps and they all spoke Spanish (studying in Toledo, as it were), so I eventually got where I wanted to go.  The occupied a solid two hours as I looked around at everything from hardware to antiques to jewelry, artisan works, and clothing.  I ended up with a few sister gifts and a thick wooden bangle for myself, the price of which I successfully bargained down by two euros.

In a much better mood (bully for retail therapy!), I returned to the airport, enjoyed my free lunch, and polished off the rest of The World Without Us, my remaining New Yorkers, and a decent chunk of The Memory Keeper's Daughter before I finally landed in Barcelona.  By the time I reached the hostel, checked in, and found my friends, it was 9pm--fortunately, they'd waited for me to eat.  We went around the corner to a Spanish place for omelettes, bocadillos, and self-serve tap beer measured by table on a big screen while getting better acquainted, as no one really knew everyone.  We had me, Jen (whom I've known for five years), Nadine (from my Russia trip, who'd only met Jen once or twice), and Jen's friend Shaina (they both go to Simmons College).  

Back at the hostel, we settled in for the night.  Everyone had had an early morning--the two Simmons girls had been up at, like, four to get to Barcelona from Bergen, Norway.  The hostel itself, though, was fairly cool.  Unlike other stops I'd made, this was an actual youth hostel--you had to be no older than 24 to stay--and being on the ground floor was almost like a freshman dorm: a bar, computers for public use, couches and tables, and a ton of signs and photographs advertising the various activities the place offered, from cooking classes to bike tours to pub crawls.  The four of us shared a room of bunk beds with two girls from Canada that had great bathroom proximity and a decent view of the neighborhood to boot.