Celebrating The Day In Barcelona or,
When Good Parades Go Bad

Now, don’t get me wrong; I love a parade. There’s something about the energy and happiness that it generates that is infectious. So when I encountered a parade in Barcelona during a European trip, I was eager to see just how they paraded on the other side of the Atlantic.

I was staying at a hotel smack dab in the middle of Las Ramblas . . I’d had visions of whiling away the hours sitting at outdoor cafes watching the streams of people pass and generally acting like euro-trash. The room in the hotel was on the small side, like the bathroom door couldn’t open all the way because it hit the bed, which was shoved up against the opposite wall. So cafe sitting became a must, just to experience some space.

I’d seen the sights over the last few days and was finally getting the chance to practice the art of doing nothing. It was an overcast day, but the good kind of overcast day where it doesn’t rain and the layer of clouds shield away the sun just enough so you don’t have to wear sunglasses. There was a whole hullabaloo near the plaza where people were gathering on the sides of the street. Police had barricaded the curbs, just like they do on Fifth Avenue in New York on St. Patrick’s Day.

“Mmmmmm,” I thought. “A parade!” Major town, so I figured there’s be a few good floats and in Gaudi’s city they should be quite extravagant. So I joined the crowd ready to view the passing spectacle. The Spanish crowd was cheering, and holding signs of which I had no idea what they meant. In the distance, people started clapping, but not like applause on a game show; it was more like the clapping in a cheerleader routine. Wow, they really get into the spirit here, I thought. The crowds were getting louder and it was sure to be a time for celebration.

Soon, the marching began. The first group to march down the street was a troop of policemen. With perfect precision, they marched, proud and dignified. The cheerleading clap started up again, and even I was caught up in the moment and wanted to clap along. But soon I realized this was no pep rally. The clapping was not a cheer. It was slowly evident to me that it was a signal for the mob of people to storm the police. Hundreds of people rushed the streets and suddenly more police appeared in full riot gear. These weren’t people in celebration. Those signs didn’t deliver words of encouragement. This was no parade.

Protestors started storming towards the government buildings and soon the police pulled out their nightsticks and performed violent attempts to keep the peace. In no time, what I’d thought was a parade abruptly turned into a full-scale riot, and I was caught in the middle. The provocative clapping continued. People ran every which way. Punches were thrown. Tear gas grenades were fired. Nightsticks were swung. Smoke filled the air. Cars busted through barricades. Chaos was born.

Being the intelligent guy I am, I ran like the wind to get out of the area. I managed to find refuge in the nearby court of an office building on the corner of the main “parade route” and a side street. But had no idea how to get further away, or at least to safety. The main street route was filled with tear gas fog and people getting struck left and right; the side street was blocked by a burning dumpster, filling the area with scorching flames and a black smoke that reeked of refuse. I tried to get inside the office building in hopes of escaping on the other side, but the doormen kept on shoving people out like third-class passengers on the Titanic, and locked their doors.

I chose the smoke filled alleyway as my route for escape, plunging past the burning dumpster. Other protesters were running away from the riot squad down the same block. Yes, this was Spain, but no bull; it was the running of the cops. Hemingway didn’t have this in mind. We ran for our lives for about two blocks looking anywhere for shelter, but every shop and cafe had wisely locked up.

Scurrying away like a fugitive for another ten blocks finally brought me to another part of town where regular Barcelonian citizens were oblivious to the brutal activity just blocks away. I found an open subway entrance to flee underground and took a train to the famous La Sagrada Familia Cathedral, in a safe zone among my own kind: touri. Then headed back to my cozy room, which had taken on a much more inviting air.

So do I still love a parade? Sure, I do . . . that is, until the tear gas arrives.

Buddy Can You Spare A Dime?
Or
Getting Riel In Siem Reap

I’d wanted to get into Cambodia for years; just never seemed to have the time even though it’s just a quick run from Thailand. But I finally decided to pre-book the trip to make sure I actually set the time aside. I mean any country willing to sell a kid to Angeline Jolie has gotta be worth seeing, right?

Now you have several choices of destinations within the country, Phnom Penh (third world capital), the killing fields (historic, tragic, but not exactly Disneyland), the countryside and the mighty Mekong (land minds and flooding dirty brown water), or Siem Reap and the many ancient wats surrounding what probably was a quaint little town a mere 10 years ago. My choice was Angkor Wat, which meant Siem Reap for accomadations.

Ramble On . . .

Mosey On Back . . .

Entrance To The Rabbit Hole . . .

SIGHTS OF:

Barcelona

Cambodia