Getting out of Barthalonaaa! Part 1

Leslie and I walk back to our hostel the first night in Nice. “I think I’m getting sick,” I say.

“You think so? How?” It is damp in Nice. Overcast, cool and humid. A typical September. I’ve been stress for the last two weeks, but I hope it is just the weather. “You can’t get sick on our trip. It’s only the second day.”

Leslie is my complimentary opposite in nearly every way. Physically, she is about my same size, but has no curves. She has striking facial features, dramatic blue eyes, white as a sheet and thick, brown, straight hair. She believes in logic and cold, hard facts and lacks any smidge intuition. She lives to be a tourist and has no interest in blending in. She spends the next day dragging me in my weakening state to every touristic site she can squeeze in without feeling like her enthusiasm is getting on my nerves.

Some castle.

Leslie loves the historic aspect. She flits from photographic hotspots to scenic outlooks, snapping photos and pointing out all the beautiful scenery. She is excited to see the waterfall and the overlook where she can photograph sections of Nice and later piece them together in a panoramic. She looks back at me and asks what I would like to see, wondering if I’m pissed at her or just sick. She suggests cute, touristic places to capture our memorable, second time together in France, a journey four years in the making.

I search my bag for more tissues, praying I don’t run out before we get back into the city. I look straight up at stairs and inclines, knowing I’ll regret not winding myself if I don’t proceed upward and not wanting to sit alone while Leslie continues by herself. I’m obligated to take the typical, scenic, Nice photos found on all the overly priced postcards. I’m tired of pulling my camera in and out of my bag. The waterfall looks fake and cold. My face is hot. I scowl every time Leslie points her camera in my direction.

The beach.

The temperature works for Leslie. It’s not raining. It’s warm enough, and she doesn’t need her jacket. She likes the cool breeze as she chats with her mom on the phone, updating her on the day’s events and my state of wellbeing. She’s armed with her camera and tries to capture the overcast beach backdrop.

I hate walking on big rocks. This isn’t a beach. It’s a bunch of big, uncomfortable rocks next to some cold, salty water. It hurts to sit on the ground. There’s nothing to take pictures of. A beach is a beach. People are stupid for lying on these boulders trying to sun themselves in average temperatures on a partly cloudy day. Haven’t these people ever been to a real beach? I’ve run out of tissues and am close to finishing up Leslie’s Charmin-to-go. The sun allows me to momentarily take off my jacket. I force myself up because the rocks hurt. “Go stand in the water,” Leslie suggests. I’m curious about the temperature, even though I know it will be cold. I role up my jeans, cursing myself for believing they won’t get wet and I won’t have to be stuck in wet jeans the rest of the day. Yep, the water is cold, and yes, it splashes on my jeans. Leslie snaps a photo of me clinging to my bag and awkwardly trying not to scowl as I look down at her camera. We switch, and I take the same photo of Leslie, smiling.

Before dawn we board the train to Barcelona. I had hoped a decent night’s sleep would fix me right up, but I have not sleep decently in several nights, and my condition has worsened. I am now winded each time I have to lift my bags. I ache. My mouth droops open to let in the oxygen that can’t fight its way through nasal blockage.
Leslie feels bad for me. I feel bad because Leslie feels bad for me.

We’re both excited to be headed to Barcelona. It’s a city always proceeded by a reputation for excitement, fun and livelihood. We expect colorful scenery, flamboyant Spaniards and a nightlife that refuses lend itself to tranquility. I’m interested to test out Spanish in Spain, knowing I will have to be a translator. Leslie’s knowledge of Spanish is limited to her personalized pronunciation of the word Barcelona.

“I’m excited for Barthalonaaa!” She says. “I want to see all the Gaudi!”

“I want to try my Spanish in Spain. They talk really fast, and the Spanish accent is kind of weird. I don’t really like it, except when hot Spanish guys speak English. Then I like it.”

“Yeah, I know. They say it like Barthalonaaa!”

“Well, I think it’s just Barcelona, and the th sound is just kind of like a little lisp in the middle. It’s more of an accent, not really a pronunciation.”

“Yeah, but I like saying Barthalonaaa!”

---

---