The night Tracey won't remember

We woke up from our siesta at 9:00PM and got upset that we had missed a whole day, and then looked out the balcony to discover that there were, in fact, even MORE people out than there was during the day.

We got dressed and headed out, but not before pregaming with 70 proof rum. We wanted to avoid the Rambla because we had been warned that it was touristy and overpriced (which, as it turns out, totally true) and went down the rabbit hole of side-streets. We got picky, and around 10PM we discovered that food had stopped being served prettymuch everwhere. Solution? Drink!

We went to a row bar and got capirinas and sat at a little table that had tits on it.

After that, we decided that the only place that served food was going to be on the Rambla, so we caved and found a bar there. I don't remember the name of it, because when we saw the prices we gave up and went to the bar seating to get a drink and leave. Tracey's a whore, though, and ordered two jacks. I think she was expecting a shot or something, because this is where we learned about how Barcelona serves drinks. They hand you a tall cocktail glass, and then they fill it with your choice of straight alcohol until your eyes get wide and you start hitting the person that ordered it. I told Tracey that "I don't do whiskey", and I ordered a pepsi to cut it. That pepsi cost us 4 euro, or about $7. Tracey got upset that I kept pouring the pepsi into my jack because it was her "chaser" and proceeded to down her entire (4-5 shots worth?) glass of jack. I couldn't add enough pepsi to cut the flavor of whiskey, so she drank most of mine, too.

Mission accomplished, we left and started the desperate search for a place, any place, that was still serving food. We found it not far from our hotel, at a small outdoor restaurant. Tracey had a ham sandwich, and I had a small ham sandwich, because that's all you fucking eat in Barcelona.  We each had a couple more drinks, and I think I introduced Tracey to the majestic mojito.

We went back to the hotel to fill a flask with our 70 proof rum after finding out the prices of drinks, and then stopped at the front desk to ask where, at 2AM, we could possibly find anywhere to keep drinking. He whipped out a map, circled the hotel, and circled "a square of dance clubs that you can't miss" and sent us on our way.

We found the square of dance clubs, and marched straight into one. Turns out, if you order a vodka and redbull, they hand you a (three quarters full) glass of vodka and a can of redbull. We danced to American pop songs, including one were Britney Spears says, "It's Britney, bitch!" and I couldn't stop myself from screeching out that part as loud as I could. I think this is why the Spanish hate Americans.

Tracey abruptly marched out of the club and ran to an alcove. I asked why we left, and she told me something to the effect of "it's done, it's done, it's time to move on, new places now! New places, B!" and took out the flask and began chugging. She handed me the flask, which I pretended to drink from, and she commended me on "not faking it" because she "totally would have."

At this point, a creepy club promoter found us and started asking us questions, where we were from, what we were doing. I gave noncomittal answers and told him we were Canadians from Vancouver. A few moments later, Tracey picked up on the conversation and yelled at him, "We're Americans!"

We went inside the next club, and I think we were supposed to be charged a cover, but I guess we looked slutty/drunk enough to get by without a cover. We went to the bathroom where for some reason(?) Tracey demanded I get into the same stall as her while she peed. She finished, told me there was no TP, and left the stall to get me some. I peed, and sat there swishing my hand under the door for several minutes while she made friends with other girls in the bathroom and had forgot all about me.

We probably had 3 more vodka and redbulls after that, and danced on the packed floor. At one point, I dropped my drink and it smashed in the middle of everyone, and I just stared at it until a girl told me to pick up the glass. I did, and we left the remaining shards and moved away to the upper dance floor. Two girls that were Tracey's bathroom friends told us to meet them at 1:30 the following day (technically the same day, actually, since it was 4 AM at this point) at the beach. I had no idea what they were saying, so I pulled out my notebook to make them write it down - because surely we would take them up on it, right?

At this point, and I don't remember why, we left. Tracey had those dead-eyes that says "I am fucking shitfaced and will suffer for my life choices tomorrow."

I was also drunk, and couldn't remember how to get back to the hotel. Which, by the way, was a straight shot from the bar down the Rambla for a total of maybe 5 blocks.

As I slung my arm around Tracey and guided her up the street, I'd prop her up on a fountain or streetlight and ask random passersby "donde esta el calle carme?" while they gave me this look of oh-god-get-it-away-from-me.

At one point, I propped Tracey up on a fountain, and she may or may not have barfed into it while I was in the middle of talking to someone. I didn't notice, but the people I was talking to pointed behind me and I turned to see Tracey running down the street. I catch up to her, and she barfs on trash cans and my feet while a large group of people did an unknown drug several feet away.

Eventually, we make it to the hotel. Well, we make it to the sidestreet adjacent to the hotel, where Tracey tried (and failed) to pee. I showed her how it was done, and we walked into the hotel. The guy at the front desk looks up, sees us, gives the "oh shit!" look and I (too) loudly tell him that "we're fine! She's fine!" while we stumble to the elevator.

He probably should have known better, since he was the very same guy that pointed us to the plaza of dance clubs in the first place. I guess we weren't recognizable at that point.

In the room, I force-fed tracey cereal and chewy bars until she barfed. I went outside and barfed over the balcony, directly onto all 3 balconies below us. I found Tracey in (IN) the toilet, brought her to bed, and closed the curtains as the sun began to rise.

I don't know why they call New York City the city that never sleeps, as Barcelona deserves this title after making both of us its bitch.