Hip fashionistas lined the alabaster walls of the closet-sized bar while green and pink neon lights illuminated the small discotheque. Trendy model types flirted on the dance floor, their faces tilting provocatively to sip from martini glasses. The house music radiating from the DJ booth perfected the feel of the uber hip Milk bar in Barcelona. I’d already had five or so vodka naranjas (a mix of vodka and orange Fanta) and gagged on at least two shots of cheap tequila. It was 2 a.m. and there was still a good five hours left until closing time when the bizarre collision of two opposites would occur: the early rising working world, fresh and ready to start their day would pass tired party goers, disoriented by the dim glow of daylight, ready to siesta the day away.
It was my last few weeks in Barcelona, and Patrick, Cameron, and I had ended up at Milk after a night of bar-hopping through the small neighborhoods and side streets surrounding La Rambla—Barcelona’s vibrant city center. We only had a few weeks left in our six-month stretch studying in Barcelona, and this night at Milk was one of our last. Cameron slept down the hall from me in my Residencia, and I’d met him fresh off the plane. We exhausted days together exploring the intricacy of Barcelona’s barrios that layer the city with its unique and historic flavor. Weekends were whiled away on excursions around Spain and Gaudi architecture hopping. Discovering restaurants, bars, and hideaways tucked into clandestine alleys was our favorite daytime activity.
Patrick took a slow deep drag from his Marlboro and a curled cloud of smoke took shape in the already hazy bar. He was clad in his characteristic Levis jeans, a tight, black t-shirt, and a vintage Levis jean jacket. Superficially, he appeared to be the quintessential American hipster, but there was gentleness to him that radiated out. I’d met Patrick amidst pitchers of sangria and Spanish classes. We spent lazy Sundays in Parc Ciutadella listening to the drum beat of hippies, the smell of hashish infusing the air. Sometimes we went to his favorite bar—a dive, with albums and Spanish newspaper clippings haphazardly pasted on the walls. It was all too reminiscent of the college bars of my undergrad days—floors sticky from Coors Light, cheap vodka, and who knows what else.
