Wednesday I went to the Dow Jones Bar with a group of my girlfriends. I think I explained it in a previous blog, but basically it’s a stock market bar. The prices of the drinks go up and down according to what drinks people order. If you order an estrella, the price of an estrella goes up. You end up drinking really random things that people don’t typically order because they are the cheapest. However, I have remained true to my promise that I will not drink Budweiser in Spain. I think it might be sacrilegious.
Anyways, we got to the bar at the end of the FCB game, which meant the bar was full of Spaniards shouting and cheering as Barca won 5-1. Great vibe. A couple of Spanish guys come over and start to talk to us; obviously another opportunity to practice Spanish (I’m such a great student, I know). We end up on the conversation of sports, which makes a lot of sense because when our Spanish or their English failed, you could just point to the TV with the game on and make enough hand gestures to get your point across. One of the guys (Sergi) tells us he plays Rugby.
There are three things I get abnormally excited about in Spain: meeting people who live on the West coast, Vespas, and rugby. Now I figured if Sergi lived in Barca there was a great chance he owned a Vespa (i.e. I could ride it). So if you’ve managed to add correctly, he officially fit into one, possibly two, categories.
As it turns out, Sergi was a really nice guy. He also had big biceps, which was a lovely change from the prototypical Spanish man. We ended up talking for a while and exchanged numbers.
Mom, I know you’re reading this right now and probably freaking out about my safety, so let me try to ease your (and anyone else’s) worries. I met him in a Spanish bar not filled with tourists. The most dangerous places in Barcelona are actually the places filled with the most Americans. When he called and asked me to go out and get a drink the next night, I suggested we meet in the same bar. I’ve been there a couple of times and the bartenders know who I am (blondes in Spanish bars aren’t common), and they speak fluent English. If I felt a bad vibe, I knew I could easily walk up to the bar, explain the situation, and have someone stand with me outside while I hailed a cab.
So we’re all feeling good about my safety, right?
The date was pretty cool. When he asked for my number on Wednesday, he told me he would call me after he got out of class the next day. Then he called me when he got out of class the next day. He bought the drinks (In Spain, it’s not typical for men to buy women drinks…lame, I know). And he was a gentleman.
All in all, the whole thing was just funny. With a language barrier, it’s kind of hard to have a legitimate conversation about anything of substance. Not to mention the difficulty to even say simple phrases. For example, he said, “It’s funny to see you.” And I’m sure I said an equivalently weird Spanish saying. We stuck to sports, school, and travel. It turns out he doesn’t own a Vespa, so….yeah.
I have no desire to date anyone, so I won’t be seeing Sergi again…explaining that to him via phone today when he didn’t understand my English was awkward though.
I can now say going on a date with a Spaniard was a good experience. It’s a great thing to check off my Spanish bucket list, I got some Spanish practice in, and had fun. Great success.