"A little hike'll be nice, right?" I say as I see Grant eyeing the tram with all it's fancy bells and whistles.
"Let's do it," he nods, and we romp off over the railroad ties at a soft incline. "I wonder how far up there it is..."
The answer is far. Much farther than I'd imagined anyways, and in all honesty, it's not the prettiest of days. The sky's overcast and with a high light grey and low clouds hanging puffy below, not white as in the sunlight, but with that same grey monotone. It's muggy hot though, and the lack of sunlight isn't necessarily a bad thing as we step-by-step up the mountain through the trees. A cool breeze treats us as the trail crosses an empty, paved road and becomes another not too far up the way. The hike's already turned into something a bit longer than any of us had expected, and from the road there's to be seen a giant television needle sticking up and dominating the treeline. Towering above us with it's hive of satellite dishes humming at it's middle, pointing out in all directions. The path's wider now and it wraps along the side of the range, ambling ever so slightly upward, and around the next ridge is a much prettier sight. Well. In some respects, because there she is. The Sagrat Cor. The great church of Tibidabo perched on a peak farther down the range. It seems still so distant, but at least it's within eye-shot now. We take a pause on a bench by the path. And by the bench, an old fire hydrant water spout to fill our bottles with. All around berries are busy growing wild and black and Grant tries a few. So too do I, and they're bitter, then sweet. We wonder aloud about the coming night and the future mischief we'll no doubt find for ourselves. And in my mind I'm beginning to realize it's rare to be times expected. We're just floating in the Spanish mountain breeze with not enough cash between us to stick to set plans. But it's a young man's game to dream the big life. The everything, and we play it like a game of hearts, with passion, with cunning, with hopes and desires, with tired eyes and gazes stretching towards Tibidabo.
In the moody weather there's a streak of medieval questing that cuts through my thoughts as the place gleams in the bright grey like some gloomy treasure awaits for us there. Something worth the trek to pull us up by the tank tops and brings us so close so that the speck of church on the mountainside becomes this great, white-stone monstrosity of looming Christianity. To crane our necks up when standing before it just barely holds it's entirety in, all the way to the tip-top to Jesus with his outstretched arms. Mike lights a candle inside at the foot of one enormous window of stained glass. It's a place with deafening silence, with high ceilings and a thickness in the air so that you really feel the breaths coming in and going out.
[stop]
The sun's shining through the cloud cover when we walk out, shining down the mountain onto the old-time-y amusement park and all the rides we can't ride because we don't have any money, not me and Max anyways. There is a bar though, by the entrance.
"We need something hydrating after that hike, whew," and Mike orders four beers from a lady with a fake mustache and black and white striped attire. "I guess me and Grant got these ones, aye fellas?"
"Owe-board!" says Max with a swish of the fingers.
"Yup. Thanks guys." I add the beers to our totals on the iPhone.
"When's your money coming in?"
"Soon. I hope. I emailed my Mom two days ago. She told me she'd put some in, so hopefully by tomorrow," I explain, but it's more pleading than explaining. Being broke sucks. Acceptance comes soon enough, mostly because one has no other choice. Accept it. It's the present. Broke, presently. At the top of Spanish mountains overlooking Barcelona. The main streets cut through the city like a concrete and stone and tile mouse maze flowering off the Mediterranean. The park's a small thing with a handful of rides that look awfully rickety in the wind up here. Maybe it's just the faded paint though. The childishly bright colors. They've been truckin' on for a good hundred years, why stop now. The old rollercoaster and the carousel, the pendulum swing that swings you to the very top, the heavy red prop planes hanging from a giant mobile and gliding out past the ledge; all truckin'. Still, the planes look daring, and everyone's quite trusting in the ancient metal work. And why shouldn't they. I just wouldn't pay to get on. Hell, I can't anyway. The view's a treat when the thing comes around, out over the lower tree-tops. Just trees stretching into city stretching into sea, suspended in the air. I'll sit here with my beer and close my eyes and I'm there. In the cockpit, at the fake wheel. Maybe a pilot's helmet. At the very least, some of those pilot headphones. And maybe that rickety old plane rips off the metal mobile and glides down over the city and right out to sea. What a view that would be, and I see it all. I see it for free. Sitting at a table by the bar with a beer in hand and nightshades pulled over my eyes for a second while we squabble pithy over life's methods and moneys and the manner of our perseverance through this torrid foreign affair. The end's in sight, but it's still far off across a desolate, west-European plain of adventure. It's all we can do to just take in everything because that's what precious and worth remembering. The life being lived through this tired body. The humid sweat, the cool breeze, the cool brews, the speeding clouds and the warm sun. The world pacing below, and this carnival around us.
