Flushed and tipsy from the sangria, we link arms with Preston and propel him along the port.
"We should go to sushi."
"I thought we were eating at midnight!"
"I want to go to Margarita Bluue!"
"You guyyys. This is soo much fun!"
"I love y'all!"
"I can't believe we're actually here!"
The ever-stoic Preston breaks arms with us and moves several strides ahead. We canter and gallop to catch up, purses flailing.
"You guys can't all be drunk tonight," he warned us, "We need at least two responsible people to make sure we all stay together."
"Right-o!" I add loudly, unfortunately deciding to add a salute. Preston groans.
Looking back, we never know whether to refer to that second night in Spain as Margarita Blue Night, or Absinthe Night. In reality, they were two separate episodes, with two very different ambiances.
It started out innocently enough, blasting Britney Spears in our apartment, teetering from room to room in our heels borrowing shirts, skirts, make-up, and bras, trying things on, modeling, then discarding them in heaping piles that were rapidly accumulating over beds and on the floor.
Ever so often an indignant remark could be heard from the ever-time conscious Preston, who had dressed in under ten minutes and was now parked impatiently in the kitchen. We encouraged him to make use of the Bacardi while waiting as it might serve to loosen him up, but we were growled at and retreated to our chambers with the alcohol in tow- apparently we were the ones who might need it.
Eventually hair was straightened, make-up was applied, and purses were in order- shots and pictures were taken, and we were ready to go out on the town. We were hustled out of the apartment and physically restrained from re-entering despite our cries of,
“But Preston, I forgot gum!! (me) lipgloss!! (Rose) the bacardi!!! (Chastity)”
Pouting and grumbling, we linked arms and sauntered ahead of him down La Rambla. Bars were opening, men were whistling, and it felt like a good night to be alive.
We found Margarita Blue at the end of an alley, having been lured to it by the bright blue glow of its neon sign. It looked small from the outside, but extended quite a ways and was packed with people. Half of them stood along the bar, mingling and dancing with drinks in hand, while the other half were seated at tables.
It was 12:03 and we had not yet eaten dinner, so we put our names on the waiting list and ordered a round of drinks at the bar. They were gone by the time we got our table, so we got another round and a pitcher of sangria to wash them down.
By the time our food arrived we were at that level of sloshedness where all you want to do is feast, and feast we did. Margarita Blue had the best Mexican food in town, even better, Rose proclaimed, than the food in Mexico itself. Enchiladas, quesadillas, nachos dripping with cheese and slathered with salsa..... we kept the dishes coming until we reached an all time pinnacle of contentment and sat back with stupid, drunk, satisfied grins on our faces. Life couldn't get any better than this.
After a bit of carousing around the streets, we decided to head on to Fairy Bar. Inside were actual trees, streams, and a waterfall with rocks to sit on, but since they were wet we chose to camp out on the bridge and sip our rum and cokes. The mechanical fairies and frogs were creative, but we were ready for more of an adventure.
"Are we going to try to find that absinthe bar?" Chastity voiced the same question I was thinking.
"Yeahhhh......" agreed Rose. We all looked to Preston for approval. He shrugged. We bounced.
"Do you guys want to buy some weed?" Our friend on the corner never quits. "Our how 'bout some Brewskys?"
"No thanks, man," Preston fends him off. "But hey, do you happen to know where we can find Bar Marsella?"
"Marsella? Ahhh, haven't heard of it but most bars are on la Rambla...."
"Yeah, this one's not. But thanks though."
"Hey, if you guys don't find it, you can always come back and buy some weed!" His farewell cry echoes through the emptying streets.
After asking a couple street vendors with no luck, we decide to solicit some more reliable sources, the bartenders themselves. Eventually it becomes a sort of routine, entering, buying one drink, then leaning over the counter as it is passed to us and murmuring, "Absinthe?"
An emphatic shake of the head, waggle of the finger, no, no, no, none of that here. They try to tell us that there hasn't been absinthe served in Barcelona since it was made illegal in 1901. We'll just see about that.
We are getting close to our apartment and ready to concede defeat when we decide to try one last bar. At the mention of the word "absinthe" the bartender's eyes gleam and she motions us closer, speaking in a whisper.
"There is one bar that still serves it." She reveals. "Been serving it since the turn of the century, maybe longer. Not a lot of people know about it at all, much less know how to find it. But I do."
She leans in even closer to give the directions before warning, "But be careful. This isn't your regular alcohol. It's not that green, imitation absinthe they sell all over the place either. This is the real deal, and the last time I went to Bar Marsella I was hugging the toilet all night."
We’re sold. We thank her profusely and begin to make a rapid exit. It's already 2:00 and we're used to early closing French bars.
"This is Spain," she assures us, seeing our haste. "Marsella will wait. Oh and kids?" We turn as she smiles and winks knowingly. "Have fun."
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