An ode to Barcelona

Dear Barcelona,

You have surprised and disappointed me. I spent less than 24 hours in your wacky wonderland of Gaudi, Las Ramblas and Picasso and only slept three hours in one of your hip hostels in a less than hip part of town.

I am mostly disappointed with your main club, Razzmatazz, and its ability to confuse concertgoers by printing the incorrect date on prepaid tickets to Girl Talk.

MySpace.com said 1 a.m. Saturday, Ticketmaster.com said 1 a.m. Saturday and the ticket I picked up in Valencia said 1 a.m. Saturday.

That means 1 a.m. Saturday, right?

Not quite.

We — Charlotte, Katie and myself — started walking to Razzmatazz but, like most experiences in Spain, we got lost. So, Barcelona, we put our trust in one of your fine taxistas, arrived two minutes later and got in line only to find we had forgotten our IDs.

Assuming it would be faster, we trusted another taxista who then gave us an unsolicited scenic drive throughout the city, but was kind enough to wait while we retrieved proof we’re older than 14.

Nearly €30 later, we were back in line and disappointed once again when the bouncer informed us Girl Talk would be here tomorrow night.

Tomorrow night? That cannot be right.

Our tickets read 1 a.m. Saturday.

Apparently Razzmatazz has the power to change calendar dates and when they say 1 a.m. Saturday they do not mean the wee hours of Saturday morning like every other calendar we follow, Razzmatazz considers 1 a.m. Saturday all of Saturday night (that last part is a direct quote, translated of course). So really Razzmatazz, you mean 1 a.m. Sunday.

We were pissed and a bit tipsy after some sangria and complained well enough in Spanish for them to let us in for free, which really meant letting us in at the cost of missing Girl Talk and this is where you surprised us Barcelona.

Razzmatazz is the coolest club I’ve ever seen. There were five interconnecting rooms of different themes with rooftop passageways between them. We danced our pants off to techno remixes and everything but rap and made the most of our night without Girl Talk.

We left just as the morning joggers hit your pavement and the birds began their sunrise serenade. Checkout hit us at 10:30 so we explored on three hours of sleep, saw a French man dressed as a female nurse, spotted a Mammoth, napped in one of your parks and tried to soak in the best of Picasso. We walked through your winding boutique-filled streets and avoided all but one of your delicious pastry shops to try a basil-coffee cookie.

We watched a Michael Jackson impersonator get into a fight with a crazy lady in wild yellow pants and a wilder dye job after she tried to steal his cash.

We made it to your pier as the sun began to set and wound up at the train station with enough time to get yelled at by a guard because sitting on the floor gives the station a “mala imagen,” or bad image.

But it’s OK Barcelona we can still be friends. After all, this wasn’t my first visit and I’ll be back in May and explore your other wonders with my parents. But please, do something about Razzmatazz. It’s just too cool for calendars and I know we weren’t the only ones upset by this mixup.