We were only in Barcelona for about an hour when we went to buy guitars.
Not sleeping bags.
Not cartoons.
Not water.
Guitars.
Because this was punk. And we're all musicians. And what a trip without guitars.
If we were traveling with our family, of course we'd never get away with this.
That would be where we sleep, what we eat, if we have sunscreen, how much water we have, and where the nearest pharmacy is.
We landed in Barcelona and went to buy four guitars.
Everyone's married.
The original plan was more sensible. Just one. Two at the most. We'll take turns. The guitar is just a guitar and we fly with the smallest hand luggage, in which one has two shirts, socks and a few things that fit into a similar expedition by mistake rather than a plan.
But Mirek had his head.
He said it was out of the question.
Everyone has to have their own.
And he paid them as a gift.
Four guitars.
About 70 euros a piece.
Three Spanish and one electroacoustic.
They were almost as good as new. Each sounded a little different. And together they sounded great.
Mirek, who arrived as the one we may take care of, bought us the sound of the expedition during the first hour in Spain.
That's important.
Because that made a difference.
It wasn't anymore: we're taking a blind friend to an eclipse.
It was: a blind friend just bought us tools and determined the rhythm of the expedition.
In music, we asked for guitars. The Lord sent us to the opposite bazaar.
We started calling him a guitar burial ground.
It wasn't a poetic name. Just a bazaar. But it worked for us. A place where old wooden girls waited for another trip.
And we gave it to them.
There were absurd ideas.
Mirek suggested playing guitar as a cello with a blind eye stick.
He didn't play like that. But the idea was enough.
We laughed so hard, we had a stomach ache.
We were in Barcelona for an hour, and it was already out of control.
Which meant it was going well.
We take four guitars and get back in the cab.
And only in the car do we realize that four guitars are not small.
We didn't think it would look like each of us had a Spanish dancer on our lap.
The car is suddenly small.
We're big.
The guitars are bigger.
We're cuddling.
Laughter doesn't stop.
The Spanish driver from Morocco has already seen everything.
But not yet.
We stopped by the supermarket. Buy the first practical things. Sleeping bags. Carimages. Folding chair for Mirko. Some food. Water.
I mean, things a normal person buys before a trip.
We bought them after the guitars.
Which says more about us than we should.
Then the beach.
Barcelona.
The sea.
Sand everywhere.
I put the Czech flag on the blind stick because the flag must not lie on the ground. He's been flying behind us for a while, laying out our area on the beach. He's holding it badly, so he ends up through Mirko's folding chair.
Classic camping chair.
With a drink holder.
Mirko's throne.
We have a blind stick, Czech flag, four guitars, folding chair and sea.
That's all we need at the moment.
We're running into the water.
Everyone.
We jump into the sea, hug, laugh and cry at the same time.
"Dude, we're here!"
We're all yelling.
And we're jumping in waves so close to losing our bathing suit.
It's ridiculous. It's beautiful. It's completely undignified and at the same time dignified exactly the way it should be.
Because the road is the goal.
And we have just overcome one goal.
Not an eclipse.
Not a totalitarianism belt.
Not Moncaya.
But the first real threshold of the expedition.
We're here.
Barcelona from Queen sounds in our heads. Maybe someone let her go. Maybe not. It's not important. Some songs appear in the way themselves, even if no one lets them go.
Then we strip our wooden girls out of wrappers.
Let's play.
Rock songs. Czech tramp. Something we know. Something we don't know. Something you can play after beer and wine on Barcelona Beach when you have sand in your shoes and feel the world is right for a while.
I don't remember the first song.
In my memory, of course, it was Fear of the Dark, because nothing else would fit the first night of the Blind Sun.
Let's eat.
Let's have a drink.
The crew is falling asleep.
One's on patrol.
Actually, I feel like there's nothing to watch.
We're on a beach in central Barcelona. Sand everywhere. My stomach hurts from laughter and I feel beautiful.
The gang's asleep.
He's sleeping happily.
And so it's just me, night and Barcelona.
It's nice and warm. Heat, not heat.
From remote corners you can hear music and laughter. There are different groups of people on the beach, and even though it's dark, I'm not afraid of anyone.
After experience from the south of Spain, when I had to watch over the beach for the fact that I was watching over it, this place feels like paradise on earth.
The waves are pretty high. There's a surf.
Sometimes I go for a dip. The wind will dry me faster than a towel.
Next to me is our quest:
Czech flag.
A blind stick.
Guitars.
Chairs.
Sleeping guys.
It's gonna be 3: 00 in the morning and we're gonna have a patrol. Like back at camp.
Until then, I'm looking at the map and preparing a plan for tomorrow.
Let's go get the car. The Granollers. Then Zaragoza. And then. The direction of Soria. Direction Moncayo. The direction of the shadow.
It feels like a dream.
And I realize that Mirek, who is with us and is blind, is not the only one with a handicap.
Every one of us has had a handicap in our lives. Something he had to fight and move on.
And the sooner you admit your handicap, the faster you can move on.
In the middle of the night, a tractor passes through the beach.
Sharp lights cut the darkness. Looks like it's over for a while. They're gonna fire us. That the end of our little kingdom will come from the sand, guitars and blind sticks.
Tractorist steps into the lights.
Shows his hand to a smooth spot.
It's obvious from his smile that he's not chasing us away.
He's advising us.
He's helping us.
It's like he saw a cane, a vest, a flag, guitars, and understood that this isn't a beach mess.
This is a small expedition.
And maybe he congratulated us in spirit.
Maybe not.
Maybe you just said these fools look tired and could sleep on a better piece of sand.
The gang's falling asleep again.
The sea plays.
Barcelona's breathing.
And I'm on patrol looking forward to another day.
I'm here.
Right now.
With this particular crew.
And it's beautiful.
