“Anybody for a Dip”

November 3, 2007,

Barcelona, Spain

I have a rule when I travel: if I see the ocean, I have to at least get my feet wet. So the first thing I do when I wake up (in another truck stop) in Barcelona, is grab my bathing suit and head for the sea. Steve, Sherman and Xavier, the local promoter, are with me and we decide to go have some breakfast first, where we meet a wonderful Spanish waitress who speaks fluent English due to her stay in Miami for three years.
She serves me a three finger deep egg and potato omelet, with a side of Jamon (thinly sliced Serrano ham) on a baguette drizzled with olive oil and schmeared with crushed tomato.
Add a thick, rich espresso (they put cream in it without telling you) and I’m ready for my Mediterranean dip. When we finally get to the “beach” (a wood planked sea side area that runs for hundred of feet) I roll up my pant legs and climb down the pool ladder into the protected swimming area that was created by thousands of giant cement blocks. It’s way to cold for a bathing suit, although you wouldn’t know that by looking at the two 70+ year old men in Speedos.
As my feet touch the water, I have the sense that I have again reached the ends of the earth in my travels (although it’s only the end of the Mediterranean.) I, also, have the sense that the water is really friggin cold!! Time to get out.

Prior to arriving at the Apollo Theatre, Pasquel took us to the top of the hill that overlooked the city where we were able to take some photos and get a group shot of the band, crew and 2nd driver Laurence.


The venue in Barcelona was a beautiful old theater complete with chandeliers, red décor and a hard wood floors.
The crowd started lining up early in the day and the guys were happy to spend time signing autographs
and talking to fans that have, as they say, been waiting nearly 17 years for the band to make another appearance. Once again, the Spaniards proved that they are into to their rock and roll. The crowd, again, went nuts.
At the end of the night, I was bombarded with shouts of “Hey, Meester, pleeese, peeck, Meester,” from all the fans that wanted guitar picks as a souvenir. Many of them keep stamp-collecting books with plastic inserts to store hundreds of picks from various rock bands. They came up to me hours before the show started (and every half hour thereafter) and asked me to remember their faces when I pass out picks at the end of the show. Jose, Arturo and the rest of them were very appreciative when, at the end of the night, I handed them each a “Brian Wheat” and a “Dave Rude” pick.