I have been listening to a lot of Ja Rule lately. Does that make me gay?
Anyway, every era has seen a skate mecca. The early 90s had EMB, the late 90s had Love, and I was fortunate enough to skate the new millennium’s: Barcelona.
Now, everyone talks about how Barcelona is this giant skatepark, and that almost every other block has something skateable, and this is absolutely true. Every street corner has some kind of bank, or ledge spot, or flat with a stair set. Barcelona is a huge proponent of modern art, which only means good things for us. I couldn’t believe that a place like it existed. Even not for skateboarding, the city is amazing. The food is good, the shit is cheap, and the bitches is bangin. On the reals. Except for the tranny hookers, that’s not bangin.
By the way, this article does not consist of any photos of any particularly famous spots (MACBA, Parallel, University Plaza, the downhill manny pad/hubba, Fondo) seeing as skateboarding is so saturated with such. Go watch a 411.
The trip was 5 days long and consisted of my lovely self, Francesco, Ghigo, Michele, and Massimo, the resident photographer and filmer.
Left to right: Francesco, Ghigo, The Illest, Michele. Mas is behind the cam.
Monday, Oct 30th: Arrival
They were already there by the time I got there, and I arrived around 12:30 AM. I had flown in from Pisa to the Girona airport via Ryanair and had to take a bus to the city and a cab to our apartment. Our tiny apartment for 5 turned out to really be an apartment for 4 (2 couples, no less). So, we had these queen sized bunk beds that had to be split between the 5 of us. It was kind of homo. Maybe that’s why I’m listening to Ja.
Anyway, we went to Barcelona’s Max Fish equivalent, then to some club where I ran into Thomas Winkle, which may not mean a lot to you, but I was psyched. I think maybe 9 people who read this will understand.
After a long night, we retired in order to skate properly the next day. Now, before I go on, I need to explain a European television tradition: phone sex ads. In Italy and France, they’re usually just naked chicks stripping with all kinds of phone numbers to call. At first you’re psyched, but then it gets pretty old. Well, the phone sex ads in Spain are much better because it’s actual porn. I’m talking legit penetration. How rad is that? Well, Ghigo got a kick out of it anyway.
Tuesday, Oct 31st: Halloween, niggas!
Oh yeah, Merry Halloween all. I’m pretty bummed that I missed the normal festivities in the NYC, but I couldn’t complain much.
The first day was spent at MACBA, a bank in the middle of the street somewhere by the water, and then to the port spot (wooden benches, Ronson Lambert in “A Time to Shine”). That spot is alright, but it’s a huge bust. We only got the boot, but La Policia have been known to take boards and issue tickets. Not fun, so keep an eye out. Just speak a lot of English and act completely surprised.
Nah mean?
MACBA/Big Four (other side of the museum) doesn’t really need an introduction. You know it as soon as you see it. I don’t have any pictures at all because I didn’t figure I needed any. MACBA is pretty much summed up as a Union or TF of Barcelona. There are always tons of skaters on the flat and always tons of lurkers elsewhere. What I didn’t know was that the top ledge was on lockdown on all times except whatever hours the museum is closed, thus rendering the spot completely useless unless you want to skate flat or watch Marcus McBride sell product. Let’s move on.
The evening was spent in the same vein as the night before and I can only add this:
Wednesday, Nov 1st: Tranny life. No homo.
On the second day, we skated the Port Forum area, which is the single craziest area I’ve ever seen. Ever. Really.
There’s this thing:
which acts as a hip, a mellow bank, a manny pad, and a ledge to bank all in one. How fuckin sick is that?
A little further is some shitty aluminum skatepark but after that, you bomb a hill to get to this strip of ledges.
They’re pretty sweet. It’s actually not little; they stretch for maybe a block on each side of the water. It’s rad. However, since this part is private property, we got the boot by this Italian security guard. Since everyone was Italian and I pretended to be (just for the occasion), he was pretty nice, but he still kicked us out.
We skated over two minutes to get to these guys:
This might be the coolest thing I’ve ever skated. Also, what I didn’t realize from watching other videos is that they are all over the place. I think I counted maybe 4 or 5 individual walls just like it. It was insane. The best part is that in order to get down to this section, you can bomb a hill then just carve the fuck out of them. Word life.
The night life was pretty much repeated as it was before, but this time we were walking to a club (me, Michele, some Dutch girl somebody knew) and some dude ran up on Michele all crazy. His running up all crazy was actually running up all smart because he outwitted us and jacked homie’s Italian ID card and 60 Euros. Gnarly. Once he figured it out, we met up with everyone else, who were eating some Kebabs and looking at bird cages, and combed the scene, only coming up with the ID card but no cash. We went home bummed, minus 60 Euro, and leaving a lonely and disappointed Dutch girl. Sorry, Dutch girl.
Thursday, Nov 2nd: Swaggerjacked again?
It was Massimo’s last day on the trip and we kept it to a touristy morning.
Pussy ass nigga.
That afternoon, Michele wanted to get something at the Big Four. Mas was setting up the lights for a photo and the video cam (not a VX mind you, just a random 3 chip) was right next to everything. Everyone turned around for a second and the cam was gone. Weak huh? I couldn’t actually tell you what happened, but that’s what I was told, and I’m sure it sucked whale cock. And if anyone asks me why I didn’t bring any footy back, that’s why, so eat it.
Massimo packed up and bounced a pound lighter, and the night repeated itself yet again, but minus one, except no one got robbed and there were no troie involved. Oh, quick Italian lesson: the word “(la) troia” (pronounced troy-ah) literally means “pig” but also means “whore” (thus the plural is (le) troie) kind of like how we would call a girl a bitch or a slut or something. See, you guys are getting all kinds of lessons today.
Italians love titties, so plan for the evening was a strip club or something, but we fell asleep early. Whoops.
Friday, Nov 3rd: I gotta pee. And cops still suck in every country.
We got a few coffees and hit the streets around 11 AM. After a lengthy train ride, we skated past 3 separate sets of banks blocks away from each other and skated this spine:
This thing was so much fun and was especially murked by yours truly. But this spot is also a bust and you have to stay vigilant for La Policia. Just try not to make a ruckus, because we got a solid hour.
We cruised down to the downhill manny pad/hubba thing that’s kind of half-assedly skate stopped. Right before it is this ledge off of four.
Francesco had to pee. Michele had to skate. I guess we all have needs, right?
We took the train a few more stops to go skate Fondo (marble bank to ledges and grind to roll in) which isn’t actually in Barcelona but in Badalona, a neighboring area. We got a few minutes of skating in and then the cops rolled through and asked for ID. That was way gnarly, cause they’re nothing worse than being stopped by cops, especially if you don’t know what they’re saying. Since everyone there lied and said they did have any ID, they pretty much gave up and sent us off, just leaving us all a little shook. Well, it left me shook. In New York I know what to expect and can occasionally figure a way out, but in another country you feel kinda helpless when it happens, at least the first time.
The evening repeats itself one last time. The strip club was twenty Euro to get in, so we canned that and redid the bar/club routine where I saw this hot mama:
Talk about crip walk. Why is this bitch in here?
Saturday, Nov 4th: We best be out.
We departed from the aparment at check out time, and dropped all our bags off at the train station in a locker, while we skated and waited for our 10 o clock flight.
We skated the University Plaza (the 3 long black marble ledges) and then went to MACBA. By the way, there’s a pretty dope skateshop called Hey Ho right by MACBA with a mini in the back:
It’s about 6 feet with a 7 foot extention. The only thing is that the yellow on the mini really throws you off and you don’t expect it to be so big until you’ve hit the other wall. Skate life.
We flew home only to find out that the airline lost Fra’s board. Weak.
In true Quartersnacks form, let’s do it by the numbers:
Good spots skated: I dunno, I lost count. This isn’t starting out so well.
Thomas Winkle sightings: 4, including one attempting double heelflips with Flo.
Tranny hooker sightings: a good 30 at least
Natural tranny sightings: I’d say 5, give or take a few.
Kenny Hughes sightings with a cut off Iron Maiden shirt: 2. It was Halloween.
Things lost or stolen: around 10, including days with sleep lost and moments of sanity stolen because we were “going to H&M for only a minute.” Damn Italians and their ridiculous fashion obsession.
Times I was over MACBA: every one but the first.
Italian food eaten: almost every day. Seriously. I’’m in Spain and I’m still stuck eating Italian food. Now, I’m down for my Italian homies no matter what, but let me tell you a little something about Italians and their travel habits as a whole, and if you’re offended by this comment, go fuck yourself because it’s absolutely true: They are bad travelers. They make no attempt to learn any other languages and they automatically assume that they can find Italian food anywhere they go. I saw the same thing in Paris when two Italian ladies charged into this Bistro and rattled off an order for a panino that I know they didn’t make and in a way that I knew the guy didn’t understand. It’s pretty irritating when you want to eat something else, but the group consensus goes the other way. Luckily, my homies buckled once for a tapas bar and I wound up feelin like the dick because I got raped by a 7 Euro plate of octopus. It didn’t say the prices anywhere.
All in all, I’d say my first real skatetrip was a legit success, even through all the mishaps that were endured. At the end of the day, it was totally worth it and Barcelona is a place that deserves a visit even if you don’t plan on skating (but in all seriousness, what would be the point of that?). Coming back to Florence was more than upsetting, especially after hearing rather unfortunate news from my girlfriend and getting locked out my own house for a night. So stoked. So so stoked.
On an editorial note, Barcelona is slowly becoming un-skateable, with police running up on you and people throwing shit out of windows when you skate by, and shit getting skate stopped. I predict the Barcelona skate life to go strong for another 2 years at the most, then it’ll go the way of Philly and Frisco. Do it up soon.
Shout Outs: Quartersnacks fam, Supreme fam, my fam, the Boyan fam, Firenze skate fam, all my NYC niggas stay fly, and Caroline, stay strong baby.
Word life niggas,
Isak Buan
