Barcelona is unique. Where else can one find wide elegant boulevards, dream-inducing architecture, sandy beaches, and hundreds of mustached men offering cold beers for one Euro?
I saw the sights, and the zoo too, but the most eclectic part of Barcelona, for me anyway, was the night life.
In only a couple of nights I found myself in Irish pubs, Tapas bars, a hip jazz club with a lanky white Louis Armstrong impersonator, an Indian tea bar with thrones for seats, and a pub devoted completely to tobacco pipes. The strangest of all had to be a place called Obama British Africa.
The bar was on the way to my hostel and the leopard skin and heads on the outside made me say to myself, I know I have to go in there, but do I really want to?
The inside was adorned with various pelts, statues of long necked Africans in glass cases, and signs that said things like, "I do enjoy my cup of Lyon's Tea sold in spreads of MOMBASA." The photograph directly across from me portrayed a particularly happy pith-helmeted imperialist displaying a slain crocodile while fifteen or so loin-clothed fellows looked on. As if the wall hangings and general backwardness of the place wasn't enough, every single plasma screen TV showed PGA golf. I felt uneasy to say the least, and when my seven euro margarita arrived and tasted like piss, I felt even more uneasy. I needed some answers.
The waitress was very patient as I peppered her with questions about the bar that seemed to be what the folks at Applebees or Chilis would come up with if told to decorate a British officers' club. The waitress informed me that Obama British Africa was opened a few months before the real Obama was elected. She wasn't exactly sure why.
"No offense," I said, "but I could not imagine President Obama coming here for a drink."
"I know," she replied. "people tell me that every day."
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