Mediterranean Sea Sailing Long Distances Spain

Barcelona – A Rambla, a boob job, Jesus, and no math

Want a summary of sailing in a short sentence? A choppy ride of fifty-four nautical miles but fair winds. The current was on our side, and we made the distance in eight and a half hours. A day before, I had spoken to the marina, making sure a berth was available. It’s post-season by now, but one can never tell. We made it in time to Port Olimpic and checked in. The guy was kind but didn’t miss to say, office closing time in five minutes. A quick discussion where to go, and he welcomed us in Barcelona.
Before we set course to the Rambla, we visited our new Scottish sailing friends, Jessie and Dylan, who sailed to Barcelona earlier. The topic changed to the magnificent churches all over Spain. Impressive cathedrals, packed with all that stands for wealth, money, and intimidation by their sheer size and motifs. I mentioned the Con-cathedral in Alicante and three guys hanging at the crosses. The scene could have been a carbon copy of the movie’s final scene, ‘The life of Brain’ singing ‘always look at the bright side of life.’
Jessie concluded, be careful. You make jokes about churches and crosses. Don’t be surprised when a bolt of lightning strikes you out of a blue sky. 
We strolled around, went to Port Vela, the old harbor, with silly huge motor yachts of one hundred and ten meters in length. While I looked at these monsters, I asked myself what might be the reason for buying a ship like this? As a rule, ships burn ten percent of their new prices for maintenance a year. In this case, a Million, hands down. Not to forget the heliports on deck, that has to be filled with expensive equipment too. I’m not grudging, just a simple question, entirely unbiased, what’s the use?
The sun was setting when we walked to the Rambla, the famous alley in Barcelona with its manifold of restaurants and tourists. October welcomed us with temperatures shy below thirty degrees. A perfect day for a Tinto de Verano, a summer wine. We enjoyed all the people walking by as they are always fascinating to watch. There were those not able to raise their feet as they shuffled along – by their looks, primarily young people who were already in fierce competition with elderlies in a nursing home. Others were not so far away from the first Homo Erectus, and therefore unfamiliar with the concept of walking upright. According to a study by the Australian National University, the Homo Erectus, an early ancestor of men, probably became extinct because they were too lazy. Those people followed the “minimum effort strategy.” That’s right. I was watching them too.
Yet, by far the best was a German woman who got a boob job done. Her assets looked like the heads of two torpedoes bolted on her chest. She wore a top best described as a skin-colored ribbon around her mountains to punctuate her outstanding feature, her upper and lower boobs visible. The outfit did what it was supposed to do. People stopped, turned heads, grinned, and walked on. I looked in her direction too, how could it be otherwise, and learned that her back didn’t keep up with what her front had promised. Where food was concerned, she definitely had some experience.
Young people taking selfies was a frequent sight. A waiter spotted a group, got behind them, raised both arms, and jumped like barefoot on a hotplate. His doings drew my attention, and I asked for some pictures of himself. He agreed and savored the moment. No sooner had I taken the photos when he came over and put a piece of paper on the table with the name and address of the restaurant. A pencil in hand, he wrote his name on it and asked for a review on Google. That takes me back to churches again. The waiter’s name is Jesus! Can you imagine it? I got the signature of Jesus and the proof that he is alive. Clever as he is, he even didn’t change his name.
Speaking of, the picture of the Last Supper popped into our minds, and we ordered one paella for two. Delicious. Jesus cleared the table. Beate went to the ladies, and I kept a sharp lookout for more dangerous torpedoes. A waitress approached, put two grenades and ammunition, sorry, two plates of ravioli and a quarter omelet on the table, and disappeared. Sure, I could have rejected it, but I thought of a divine gift by Jesus, and, quite honestly, the food looked too good to refuse. Beate thought so too but would have loved to know how much they charge beforehand. On the way ‘2theloo’, I passed Jesus and asked for the bill. Back at the table, one look at Beate’s face told me in detail that she had just had an encounter with the devil. Thirty-two euros for two ravioli is indeed ambitious. Another waiter came by and said, well, twenty-five euros because of you. I glanced briefly at the bill, identified two fools in math, and told Beate, let’s pay and go. Both did not notice the missing paella and two Tinto de Verano. In the end, the price was acceptable for the meal.