No Sleep

No Sleep Til London: Or So I Thought
By Avi Vichniac, Freelance Writer

Absolute bewilderment! That was the feeling I possessed when I reached the Barcelon Gaudi Architecture helps make Barcelona one of the most unique cities in the world. a airport terminal to find out that my flight to London, the last flight of the night, had already taken off. What are the odds that the Balearic Islands, known for sunshine 320 days a year, would be hit with a short tropical storm during one of the peak summer months, that so happened to delay my ferry ride by over two hours? The fact of the matter was that catching up on sleep was the only thing on my mind after experiencing four days of nonstop madness and mayhem by means of the best party spot on Earth, namely the island of Ibiza. And now rather than lying down on one of the comfy beds at the ever-popular Generator Hostel, I was stuck at the Barcelona airport awaiting my newly rebooked 6:30 AM Easy Jet Flight.

Rather than keeping to myself, I decided to chat it up with a friendly looking Britt who appeared to be in a similar situation, in that he missed his flight to London and was also under the influence of sleep depravation. After the normal backpacker-to-backpacker introduction, I discovered that my newfound friend was named Liam and was at the tail end of his month long tour of Europe, much to the delight of his British girlfriend who would now have to wait an extra half-day to see him. “Well we have five plus hours to kill, good thing I have a pack of cards” he says, as we walked to the only open café in the terminal. A few rounds of poker and some San Miguel cervesas later, we were both ready for a siesta.

As I lay on the cold airport terminal floor, with my head on my large overstuffed backpack, I could not quite fall asleep. Sure, I hadn’t had a real night’s sleep in five days, but now, without warning, I was in one of the most cosmopolitan, refined, and lively cities in the world and in good consciousness I would not allow myself to ‘stay in’ on a Saturday night. It didn’t take Liam too much convincing as our only café was now closed and the terminal floor was not quite doing the job of sleeping post. With our bags stored in lockers, we were off in a cab to Las Ramblas so that we could tell our friends back home that we finished up our Spanish experience in style.

The first stop was a standard traditional bar/restaurant for some much needed protein in the form of tapas. Sitting on that tall, traditional Spanish stool, I could feel myself about to pass out which prompted the need for a double espresso. Soon enough we officially started our bar hopping extravaganza. Stepping in to an establishment entitled ‘The Fairies Woods’ we found ourselves in a bar that was half medieval, half tropical jungle, and a perfect setting for a few sangrias, in order to get our systems reacquainted with another night on the town. As unique as this place was, it was surprisingly quiet compared to what was expected, so we moved up a few blocks to the Black Bear Pub, a loc The club scene oon the island of Ibiza draws people from countries all over the world. al’s and backpacker’s gem possessing both large beer stalls and unpretentious fun. There, we both exchanged stories and traveling gossip to other English-speaking patrons. A few blocks away we came across two more bars; one which possessed what we believed was a Spanish reenactment of a Motley Crue cover band and the other was a small disco party with sleek lighting to match. The last major venue of the night was the Maremagnum, a shopping mall full of ubber cheesy bar/clubs where tourists must have out numbered the locals four-to-one. Liam and I chatted the night away while hopping from one small spot to the next, an advantage of going to a complex of free nightclubs. We conversed about everything from past relationships to the political culture we lived in, not to mention discussing the odds on if the Australian guys next to us would successfully seduce the nearby cluster of young and clearly naive American sorority girls who couldn’t seem to handle their liquor. Eventually it was time to head back to the airport so that we wouldn’t miss our second flight and before I knew it, a flight attendant was barking at me to buckle my seat belt.

I arrived into London with my eyes bloodshot and my mind and body fully exhausted; it would be nice if I could ever sleep on airplanes. Before making my way to the shuttle bus for the airport-to-airport switch, I first gave Liam a firm good-bye handshake and a nod which meant- ‘have a good life my travel-companion friend.’ It is funny how backpackers traveling alone can meet and spend time sharing the most intimate details and yet after only a few hours company, you feel like you have known them your whole life. Then when it is time to say goodbye, there comes a mutual understanding that you almost definitely will never see them again, and somehow that is perfectly OK despite the deep bond you recently grew.

Walking into the ticket desk of Virgin Airlines at around 9:00 AM, I begged and pleaded with them to put me on the morning flight back to Boston. The cheery overly plump woman informed me that it would be $100 dollar charge. “Not worth it,” I said clearly showing signs of disapproval. “Cheer up,” the flight agent, said “It is the Notting Hill Carn Crowded with people, the Notting Hill Carnival featured bands, DJ's, masqueraders and traveling floats. ival in London today; just check in your luggage and enjoy and come back in six hours.” Hmm, I thought, try to sleep on an uncomfortable airport chair or one last festival? Did I really have a choice?

Sitting on the tube I began to wonder what this festival entailed. I knew that Notting Hill had a cool market and was the title of a cheesy Julia Roberts movie but had no clue what the festival was about. Yet with each stop I noticed more and more patrons getting on and soon I began to think that this carnival was actually a big deal. Directly across from me I overheard a conversation involving the music scene of Ibiza discussed amongst a group of three hip British revelers. I then informed them that I just indulged in the ‘White Isle’ less then a day ago and haven’t really slept since. As they became curious as to where this was leading, I filled them in on my whole recent ordeal as I drank a tall Boddington Ale from their abundant stash. Did I mention that public drinking on the train system appears to be acceptable in London?

“American,” one of them said to me with an intense Northern British soccer hooligan-esq. accent, “you are coming with us.” Fast forward an hour and a half and I am partying amid a group of twenty or so spirited British party monsters that took me under their wing as their new American compadre. What I originally envisioned as a block party with a parade and a few thousand people or so, turned out to be Europe’s largest street party and second in the world only to that of Rio. The way the festival was set up was that different floats traveled, not on one main street the way I was used to, but throughout what appeared to be every block of Notting Hill. The festival featured an abundance of bands, DJ’s, masqueraders and traveling floats. Normally I would be lost, a mere tourist in a sea of masses, yet this time I was privy to the insiders edge as my English cohorts brought me to the spot which at least according to them, had the coolest floats and the best music. Was I going to argue?

The group explained to me that this festival originated in the mid-sixties when Caribbean immigrants brought the community of Notting Hill together in a festive setting to boost morale as a response to racism and poverty in Britain. Over time, this carnival evolved into an event celebrating London’s vast multicultural make-up by way of music, dance, art and any other method one can think of. The artistic channel we were exposed to in our specific locale was a vibrant musical art form known as ‘deep house music.’

The energy level was riveting. The DJ’s running the float took on the role of a heavenly shaman, as they lead us into a sun filled trance of electronic salvation. Throughout the afternoon set, spirits mounted, bodies pulsated, as a deep sense of euphoria built up amidst the masses. Although be it a temporary feeling, it was if the crowd all fell in love. “You know you won’t be able to leave this party,” said a cute English gal who was part of the group. “You may as well just give up on that flight of yours.” Part of me thought she might be right. Did I really have to leave? Did I really want to return home to my cubicle in Cambridge, Mass so that I can sit behind a computer to crunch numbers? Eventually reality snuck in and I quickly said my goodbyes and booked it for the nearest accessible train station, which was not an easy task when you’re fighting to make your way through an immeasurable number of pedestrians.

In the end, I managed to get to the airport in time and arrived back to Boston safe and sound. What I learned from all of this was the importance of spontaneity and keeping the right mindset while traveling. Sure I lost a bed for a night and half a day’s budget while rebooking my flight, but rather then ruining my last day abroad pouting over it, I went with the cards that I was dealt and found myself in an all new adventure. It is this philosophy that is the epitome of the ‘backpacker mentality.’ Nothing will always go as planned in life but if one can convert that occasional mishap into a new opportunity, think about how much more fun things can be?

**All photos Avi Vichniac