After the hard rock some folks decided to go back to the hotel in the night bus. Anne Scheck was concerned that they didn't have an adult male traveling home with them, but I assured her they would be fine because they had Lori Houser, and, frankly, she's a lot tougher than I am.
Now before you hear too many stories (too late), I want to make something clear. It is true that part of the learning experience on this trip involved seeing not onky the height of what western culture has to offer, but also a little bit of the seedier side of humanity. All the students were offered beer on the streets, a few were solicited by prostitutes, and at least one was offered cocaine. No one partook. A few of the ladies did have to suffer some sleazy comments and rude gestures from some men on the streets (they dubbed them "creepers"). Still, everyone was safe, and by and large the people in every city were kind and helpful. In fact, Barcelona, which certainly had the most obvious and overt black market economy also had the warmest, friendliest people. Some were just too friendly, and very misdirected in their attempt to assist us. One funny note about that; before I was solicited by prostitutes last night, Mr. Witt had been solicited while I'd been offered hashish on the beach. I told the students this hurt my feelings a bit. It seems Jeff looks like an attractive john, while I just look like a drug user.
The first group left the Hard Rock Cafe, and I learned this morning that they did have quite an adventure coming home. First the group took the wrong bus heading in the wrong direction. Once they got off they had to wait a half an hour for the next one coming the other way. They had to pay the driver, despite having day passes (I'm still not clear on why and I think they may have been gouged a bit). Then, when they got ready to get off the bus, every student woke up and seemed ready to hop off, but they were so tired that one student immediately fell back to sleep. The bus pulled away and Miss Laister heroically sprinted after it, saving the day. Ultimately, the group that decided to head home early made it back later than the group that chose to stay up late.
Mr. Witt and I took the craziest group (who turned out to be the wiser group, quite by accident) on one last leisurely stroll through the city. We walked down Las Ramblas, through the Gothic Quarter, saw that hidden cathedral tucked between the buildings, then went down to the docks and had some ice cream sandwiches. When we learned how far we would have to walk to the bus station, Mr. Witt, sunburned and exhausted, hit a wall, so we decided to take cabs home. We split into two groups. The cabbie in Mr. Witt's cab didn't talk to them, but my group had this great driver who talked with me the whole way back. He played American classic rock, and though I suspect Ikaika would have preferred Spanish techno, it was a nice gesture. Meanwhile, I learned the guy had previously lived in Queens,NY, his sister still lives in Atlanta, and that he moved to Barcelona 15 years ago because he married a Spanish woman. We had a nice talk about the best things to see in Barcelona, the political situation in the Dominican Republic, and the fact that he and I would both choose to live in New York of we were single, but our wives are worthy reasons to live where we each do.
When we got our kids home (thinking they were the last ones) Mr. Witt and I decided there was no point in sleeping for a little over an hour, so we packed (I stuff, Jeff ORGANIZES) and I blogged, lost half the info, retyped it, lost it, retyped it again, lost it, wrote a hasty note, and signed off. You'll just have to trust me when I tell you that the original draft of yesterday's post was a thing of brilliance; exciting, laugh-out-loud funny, sometimes heart-wrenching, and all in all achingly beautiful. Each re-write got worse, and this is what you get. Sorry.
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