Valencia: The Last Days of CICK (*points to self*)

Unlike Rob Lowe and George Clooney, night trains don’t get better with time. Granada to Valencia was our third of the trip and probably the most painful. Although I think we all dozed on-and-off, we spent most of it awake and, by the time we arrived at the hostel at 6.00am, we were wrecked. It was still dark outside so we decided to wait in the common room until it was light enough to go out in search of some breakfast. Kaitlyn, India and Chei fell asleep while I FBed, Tweeted and blogged. We decided we’d forgo culture and have a Maccas breakfast but...and wait for it...Spanish McDonald’s don’t do breakfast!! Fo’reals. We ended up going to a place which seemed to be a chain of sorts – it kind of reminded me a bit of Dôme. Between us we ordered four dishes and four beverages. We received seven items altogether, not one of which was actually what we ordered. We spent the rest of the morning and afternoon wandering around the city, before heading back to the hostel so we could shower and sleep. On the way back there, we walked past a 24 hour vending machine place. It was literally a room full of vending machines which sold everything from your typical vending machine fare such as cokes and chocolate bars, to soup, to actual meals. That was something we definitely intended on using before we left. 

The hostel had a really great kitchen so, after a siesta (how Spanish are we?), we ventured to the supermercado (unfortunately not a Mercadonnnna-Mercadona) for dinner supplies. In that half an hour we discovered two things: at the supermercado 69¢ bottles of red wine and, in the hostel kitchen, Jaws. By Jaws, I don’t mean a large Lamniform shark, but an American dickhead with the biggest jaw I have ever seen. Honestly, he was like the real-life Mr Incredible.The only thing incredible about him (other than his jowl) was the size of his ego. He struck up a conversation with me while we were both cooking dinner, critiquing everything I was doing – how I sliced the onion, how I poured the water from the faucet into the pot, how I opened the bag of rice. His monologue about how awesome he was quickly went from amusing to mind-numbing. He eventually got into an argument of sorts with India and Chei about Estonian pastries. The girls had been telling Kaitlyn and me about these particular pastries they had tried in Tallinn. Jaws, who had overheard the conversation, butted-in.

‘They weren’t the best pastries in Tallinn.’
‘Didn’t say they were.’
‘The best pastries were from this little shop near the town hall. They...’
‘I didn’t say they were the best, I said they were good.’ He went on and on and on about how much better the ones he had were. Apparently he would know, because he “knows a lot about good cuisine”. Well, move over, Heston – Jaws is in the house. And I must say, that stir-through pasta sauce he’s warming-up here in the hostel kitchen is pretty impressive. 

The next day was Free Walking Tour Day and, in a major break from tradition, it wasn’t raining! Not only was it not raining, it was a warm, still day of sun-drenched perfection. India had awoken that morning with a mosquito bite on her eye, leading her to look...well...special. We wandered to the Plaça de la Verge and enjoyed an ice-cream by the fountain while we waited for the tour leader. The serenity of the moment was broken by Kaitlyn who, upon wanting to wash her hands to remove the sticky residue of ice-cream, chucked a mini-tantrum when she couldn’t get the tap to work. ‘The stupid f@#%ing thing is f@#%ing broken. What am I supposed to do, f@#%ing lick my hands clean?’ It wasn’t broken at all, it was just operated by foot, requiring one to push down on a peddle at the side. She stormed across the plaza to give it another go. ‘How f@#%ing retarded.’ 

As she stamped off, a guy wandered over and approached me. He reeled off something in Spanish, to which I replied that, sorry, I don’t speak Spanish. ‘Ahh, yes. I thought so,’ he replied in an Australian accent. Thought what? ‘I assume you’re here for the free walking tour?’ 
‘Yes.’ 
‘I thought so,’ he replied looking incredibly smug.  So, you thought that we were tourists here for an English speaking walking tour but, rather than ask us in English, you thought you’d flaunt your amazing Spanish skills? That was evidence enough of what a complete douche he was going to be, but his introduction to us all confirmed it. ‘Hi, I’m Jake *points thumbs toward self*. ‘I’m *points thumbs toward self* here to take you guys *points thumbs toward us* on a free walking tour of Bahl-ehn-thee-ahh.’ That’s a nice greasy high- ponytail you’ve got there, Jake. You’ll want to keep that. 

I don’t know what was worse – Jake’s incessant thumb pointing, his constant correction of our pronunciation of Spanish words, his general arrogance, the fact that he smelled as if he hadn’t washed for several days, or the fact that we were the only four people on the walking tour and had to endure him alone. Jake certainly knew his Bahl-ehn-thee-ahhnn history inside and out, his tour actually quite interesting if you looked past his thumbs and pretentious pronunciation However, as the tour wore on, they became harder and harder to disregard. Still, he showed us the sights, eventually attempting to show us some culture. ‘So, tell me’ *points thumbs towards self* guys, have you *points thumbs towards us* tried worthhhheta?’ Ummmm.... ‘Have we tried what?’
‘Worthhhheta.’
‘...’ 
‘Ahhh....you’ve *points thumbs to us* been in Barcelona. Perhaps you’re more familiar with the Catalan pronunciation: Orrshhaaaaad.’
‘...’
‘The drink?’ He was, it turned out, talking about Horchata or Orxata, a milky Spanish drink made from tigernuts. We hadn’t, in fact, tried worthhhheta so Jake *points fingers away from oneself* took us *points fingers towards self* to a local establishment to try some. It was obviously a regular stop on Jake’s *points fingers away from oneself* tour, as he got his for free. When he asked us if we’d tried “pie-ayyyy-yah”, we pretended we had. Towards the end of the tour he enquired about our evening plans. ‘So, what are you *points to us* girls up to tonight? Do you *points to us* have any plans?’ We told him that we were going to go on the pub crawl. ‘The one through the hostel?’ 
‘Yep.’
‘Well, it’s your *points to us* lucky day. Guess who’s running the pub crawl tonight?’ He didn’t have to point to himself for us to know it was him. He did anyway. ‘Me!!! *points to self*.’ Maybe with all that Spanish he’d been speaking, he’d started to forget English, because that was most definitely not the definition of “lucky”. 

Yes, this gargoyle is masturbating.

Back at the hostel and waiting for the pub crawl, we made a few new friends. Jaws had also made a new friend, Connor or, as we called him, C-Dawg. C-Dawg was Canadian and...well let’s just say, if he had been anymore stupid, he would have required watering twice a week. The first new friend we made was Justin. Justin was from Melbourne and, aside from being an Essendon supporter, was a lovely guy. At least, I thought he was. Kaitlyn didn’t seem entirely opposed to him at this point, but at some point she stopped calling him Justin and subsequently referred to him only as “That Douchebag Asshole”. Justin was travelling with his best friend's girlfriend and they were also going on the pub crawl. So too were two other Australian girls whose names I can’t remember. In fact, I don’t remember much about them at all, except for the conversation that followed. We were all sitting around the kitchen having a few beverages, when we got onto the topic of Justin Timberlake – specifically, how attractive we all thought he was. The exchange went a little something like this:
‘Justin Timberlake is the hottest.’
‘So hot.’
‘Mother Lover.’
‘The Golden Rule.’
‘I can’t believe he’s dating Jessica Biel. I’m so much hotter than her but, whatever.’ 
‘I would definitely go there. Even if Britney has gone there before.’
‘Justin is definitely my “celebrity hall pass”.’

At this point, girl-whose-name-I-can’t-remember joined in. ‘I love Justin! He is sooooooo hot. And so talented!’ She went on and on and on about what a babe he is, mentioning something about “Celine or whatever”, but then focusing her attention back onto Justin. We would have spent at least another three or four minutes talking about Justin and all the things we would do to him if we were to ever get him in a room alone. Then girl-whose-name-I-can’t-remember said, ‘I would definitely sleep with him, but he’s just so innocent....I don’t want to be the one to corrupt him.’
‘Innocent?’
‘Yeah. I mean, he’s obviously a virgin.’
‘What? No he’s not. He slept with Britney. And he’s just generally not innocent.’
‘BRITNEY? He didn’t sleep with Britney!’
‘Yeah...he did.’ 
‘He did not.’ 
Then something clicked and I asked her, ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Justin.’
‘Justin...’
‘Justin Bieber.’ 
‘Yeah....we’re talking about Justin Timberlake.’ Because, you know, we’re not 12. 

Things I remember about the pub crawl: not much. It was not Jake who came and collected us, but a generally disinterested man who led the aforementioned people, plus two French girls, to the first bar where we would meet up with people from the other hostels. On the way there, I recall a loud, very unsubtle discussion about Jaws who heard the entire thing – so, for the remainder of the evening, when we hummed the theme song from Jaws every time he came near us, pretty sure he got it. When we arrived at the bar, we were there maybe...five minutes, before C-Dawg and one of the Frenchies were making-out against the bar like two 15 year olds. While I know C-Dawg had consumed one or two drinks before we left, I didn’t think he was tipsy, let alone drunk. Then again, I didn’t think all the alcohol in the world could make a person drunk enough to make-out with C-Dawg, so I could have been wrong. I mean, gosh guys – get a hallway. 

Jaws and C-Dawg: ladykillers. 

At the second bar, I remember Jake *points away from oneself* turning up and saying he was going to make good on his promise from earlier on in the day of giving me my first ever hangover. He had, fortunately, showered and washed his hair. I remember drinking a lot and I remember someone catching C-Dawg and Frenchie in the bathroom doing more than making-out.  I remember walking to the third bar, during which some Serbian guy proposed to Kaitlyn. I remember sitting in the third bar with Jake *points away from oneself* who was buying me shots. What I later found out from Justin was that Jake *points away from oneself* gave Justin money to buy himself a drink and “piss off and leave us alone”. 
Jake *points away from oneself*, you may have showered and washed your hair and you have may have toned down the conceited Spanish corrections and I *points to self* may have been the drunkest I had ever been, but that was never going to happen. 

I don’t remember going to the fourth bar – I remember throwing up in its toilets though. The next thing I remember is sitting on the floor of the 24 hour vending machine room, watching the girls arguing with Justin. Well, it wasn’t really the girls arguing with him, Kaitlyn was being Kaitlyn, and India seemed to be exchanging a few heated words with him. I had no idea what was going on, but I remember Justin looking really, really angry. He turned to Kaitlyn, Chei and me and, pointing at each of us, ‘It was nice to meet you, nice to meet you, nice to meet you.’ He turned to India, ‘But you – I can’t deal with your shit. I’m leaving.’ I think, maybe, it had something to do with a Snickers bar...but I might be wrong and could have completely invented that. Whatever the problem was, it was forgotten quite quickly because he returned and came back to the hostel with us, carrying me the rest of the way. 

I woke up the next morning feeling completely fine physically, but really bad for ruining everyone’s night. While people were still sleeping, I went to the supermercado and bought ingredients to make breakfast for the girls and Justin, as an apology. Until they got up, I had been under the impression that, in peaking so incredibly early in the night, they had all come back to the hostel with me and ended their night prematurely. Despite leaving the crawl before it even got to the club, we apparently didn’t get home until about 5.00am. I still felt bad, especially as I was the only one who wasn’t hungover. 

We didn’t do a whole lot that day, the most interesting thing was going to the train station to book tickets for the next leg of our journey. When Kaitlyn and I got to the station, we were told that we had to go to the other station to book tickets for that particular route. Instantly, I had visions of Antequera and having to trek 100 kilometres to get there. However, the man told us there was a free bus going between the two stations.

And thank goodness there was, because I don’t think we ever would have made that fifty metres on foot. Seriously, the two stations were next door to each other. We hopped on the bus, it pulled out, it pulled back in and we hopped off. That night we stayed in, cooking risotto and attempting to watch a movie. The only English movies they had were Notting Hill, which the girls watched in the afternoon, and The Matrix Revolutions. The latter was better than nothing, so we started watching that. The girls, still recovering from the previous night, went to bed before it finished, but Justin, the Belieber, her friend and I watched the whole thing, Justin and I staying up until some ridiculous hour talking about everything from babies, to footy, to religion. 

I woke up the next morning feeling completely fine physically, but really bad for ruining everyone’s night. While people were still sleeping, I went to the supermercado and bought ingredients to make breakfast for the girls and Justin, as an apology. Until they got up, I had been under the impression that, in peaking so incredibly early in the night, they had all come back to the hostel with me and ended their night prematurely. Despite leaving the crawl before it even got to the club, we apparently didn’t get home until about 5.00am. I still felt bad, especially as I was the only one who wasn’t hungover. 

We didn’t do a whole lot that day, the most interesting thing was going to the train station to book tickets for the next leg of our journey. When Kaitlyn and I got to the station, we were told that we had to go to the other station to book tickets for that particular route. Instantly, I had visions of Antequera and having to trek 100 kilometres to get there. However, the man told us there was a free bus going between the two stations. And thank goodness there was, because I don’t think we ever would have made that fifty metres on foot. Seriously, the two stations were next door to each other. We hopped on the bus, it pulled out, it pulled back in and we hopped off. That night we stayed in, cooking risotto and attempting to watch a movie. The only English movies they  had were Notting Hill, which the girls watched in the afternoon, and The Matrix Revolutions. The latter was better than nothing, so we started watching that. The girls, still recovering from the previous night, went to bed before it finished, but Justin, the Belieber, her friend and I watched the whole thing, Justin and I staying up until some ridiculous hour talking about everything from babies, to footy, to religion. 

Our last day in Valencia was the last day of CICK (the name we had given to ourselves, an acronym of Cheianne, India, Claire and Kaitlyn). Kaitlyn and I were heading onto the Basque Coast and France the next day, while India and Chei were flying to Italy the day after that. That day turned out to be one of my favourite from the trip so far. We hired bikes and spent the day riding around the city, along the former-river-turned-gardens of Turia to Ciutat de les Arts i les Ciències (the City of Arts and Science) and onto the beach where we had lunch. It was actually really sad knowing it was our last day with the girls because sometime between Flashdance and Jaws, we’d fallen in love with them. Still, it was a brilliant last day to have together. And, with a last supper of vegetarian tacos, CICK’s European Adventure came to an end. 

Next time, from Bahl-ehn-thee-ahh to the Basque Coast: Bilbao and San Sebastian. 

Granada: Moore than just shisha, sangria and segways

Although you may have gathered it from what I’ve written, I don’t think I have explicitly stated that, aside from the Czech Republic, Spain is my favourite European country. For me, Barcelona is hard to beat, but Granada is definitely knocking on its door. There are so many things to love about Granada, from the alleys of Albayzín to the quirky bars, it is a mesmerizing synthesis resplendent with multicultural history. However, for me, my love can be attributed to just one thing: the Alhambra. My dad fell in love with the Alhambra years and years ago, introducing me to its splendour and now I share his passion wholeheartedly.

We had already booked our accommodation with the girls in Barcelona, so we followed the directions we had, taking the bus from the train station. When we boarded, we checked with the driver just to make sure we were on the right bus. His response was that, yes, we were on the right bus. As we travelled further and further in the opposite direction to the city, I went back up and checked with him again. This time, his response was that no, we were on the wrong bus and needed to be travelling in the opposite direction. Exactly what had changed from the first time we asked him, I am not sure. So off we hopped, and crossed the road and waited for a bus going in the opposite direction. We waited quite some time when, eventually, the same bus pulled up at our stop. Despite the fact the tickets we had purchased some half an hour before were two hour tickets, and the fact that this was the man who sold them to us, the freaking driver made us buy another ticket for our journey back in the right direction. I had absolutely no idea what his problem was, but I made sure my death stare was at maximum lethality as I stared him down for the remainder of the ride. Eventually, we reached our stop, Gran vía de Colón and hopped off. According to their information, it was a “short walk” from there to the hostel. This may have been the case had I been able to astrally project myself from the bus stop to the front door. The following are the directions as copied from the booking instructions:

Cross the street (Gran Vía de Colón) and go right until you get to the corner where Gran Vía meets Reyes Católicos street. Turn left and after about 50 metres you´ll reach Plaza Nueva. Once there, head straight (passing by the round fountain on your left). Once at end of the square take Carrera del Darro street. Follow it until you see a church on your right. You´ll find Calle Santísimo about 20 metres further up the road, on your left. (Note that there is another street called Nuevo de Santisimo and it is not the right one).

Now, these seem quite clear and succinct, yes? Upon reading, we thought so too. Unfortunately, once put into practice, it appeared they were written by someone who had never even been to Granada…and were, most likely, blind. Also, their estimations of distance were rubbish. “50 metres” suggests 1/20th of a kilometre, so imagine our surprise when, after walking at least twenty times this, we still hadn’t reached Plaza Nueva; Calle Santísimo wasn’t “20 metres further up the road”, but 20 minutes. “Short walk” my derrière - it would have taken us at least an hour to get to the place. I’ve read drunken text messages with more coherence than those directions. 

The girls were already there when we arrived, having experienced similar troubles with the idiotic directions. But it didn’t matter because we had all made it, and we had a room to ourselves. It was extraordinarily great to have our own room and bathroom, especially after the Kerobokan Prison-like facilities of Kabul. We spent the remainder of the afternoon chilling in the room, showering at our own leisure, spreading out and listening to Beyoncé while we got ready. 

That night we decided to do the hostel’s tapas tour. Jacob (who, with dark hair down to his shoulders, looked just like Jacob the werewolf guy from Twilight) was our tour leader, and he herded us down to the first bar. Much like in La Línea, you ordered a drink and received free tapas. While we were allowed to choose our own drinks, Jacob was adamant that he was going to pick our tapas for us. His controlling nature would have been okay if it ended there, but he wouldn’t let us order anything else because we were supposedly leaving in a few minutes. This turned out to be completely specious and forty five minutes later we were still sitting there, hungry and thirsty. An hour later we were still sitting there, hungry and thirsty. Eventually, he started herding us onto another bar, but we were done. We hung at the back of the group and, when he wasn’t looking, snuck-off around the corner. We looked around for somewhere to go and eat and, a few minutes later, saw Jacob’s head pop around the corner. We threw ourselves into the nearest shop front, which turned out to be Kebab King No 1. It may not have been the most authentically-Spanish dinner we could have had, but it was tasty and we were allowed to order for ourselves. 

The next day, we hit-up the city, attempting to sight-see. I say “attempting” because it was hard to see any sights thanks to the torrential rain and the countless Roma women shoving sprigs of rosemary in our faces and trying to make us “tip” them for the pleasure. What’s that, dirty gypsy lady? €5.00 for a tiny twiglet of aromatic plant? Yes please! I’ll take ten. The rain became so bad that we spent a lot of our morning huddled under awnings until, eventually, we starting taking refuge in shops, which eventually turned into shopping. Ultimately, we decided to cut our losses and head back to the hostel to dry-off and thaw-out. For reasons that I will never understand, I always end up twice as wet as everyone else. You’d think that, as the pressure of the rain lessens closer to the ground, I would be the driest. Not the case at all. 

The next day was Alhambra Day. If we thought the weather was bad the day before, it was absolutely ghastly that morning. Unfortunately, you have to book to visit the Alhambra, and that was the only day we could get tickets. So, with no choice but to Gore-Tex-up and brave the virtual monsoon, we headed up there for our 9.00am admission. The Alhambra is, unquestionably, Granada’s dominant attraction. Sitting atop the city in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, it’s a Nasrid palace city and, in my opinion, the most brilliant example of Moorish magnificence you will ever see. I don’t just mean magnificence in an aesthetic-sense; athough the Moorish culture was visually exquisite, with its intricate carved wooden ceilings, vivid ceramic tiles and scalloped rendering, the ingenious practicality of its design is equally awe-inspiring. In case you missed it, I am in love with the Alhambra. 

With a ticket, each person is allotted only half an hour in the jewel of the Alhambra’s crown, the Palacios Nazaries. Our thirty minutes was from 9.30, so we had to rush through the rain to get there and take full advantage of our time. Unlike a lot of the complex, the Palacios Nazaries is indoors, or at least under-cover. When we had finished there, the rain was even worse and we were starting to think that we might have to admit defeat and stay on in Granada if we could buy tickets for another day during the week.  We decided to have a coffee and give Mother Nature one last chance to heed our prayers – and she did!! The rain stopped and, as the day wore on, the sun even made an appearance. 

That night, we made the most of the kitchen facilities, cooking our dinner and making our own sangria. We briefly caught-up with Ollie after he arrived but, after a long day at work and a long drive up, he was as tired as we were, so we all had an early night. 

The next day, Ollie, Kaitlyn and I had planned to do a Segway tour. Now, before you laugh at us for doing a Segway tour, I feel that I need to put this into context in order to highlight that we did so ironically. From our first day in Prague, the stupidity of Segways became a joke for Kaitlyn and me. We laughed all through the Czech Republic and Germany at how ridiculous they were, and how lazy people must have been to use them. When we were in Rome, we laughed at the “Gladiators” riding them, and laughed even harder when TK told us that he really wanted to do one. By the time we got to Nice and saw police patrolling on them, we realised that we kind of had to go on one before we got home. We must have mentioned this to Ollie while we were staying with him and, after sharing with us the wonder that is “Chimpanzee Riding on a Segway”, we had somehow all agreed we would do a tour together in Granada. We booked it for the Saturday morning but, when we rocked-up, it turned out they had double-booked. We rescheduled for the Sunday afternoon, and instead spent the morning having a Churros and hot chocolate breakfast – the perfect nourishment for a guy running a half-marathon the next day. Afterwards, Ollie gave us his tour of the city. Having lived in Granada briefly, he knew his way around, but his knowledge of sights and landmarks was slightly less-sound.

That night, the four of us decided to embrace Granadina culture to its fullest, partaking in an evening of shisha and flamenco. I have done shisha once before, after a Lady Gaga concert in Brunswick. While the place we went to was probably somewhat touristy, sampling it in the exotic Moorish quarter of Granada seemed a hell of a lot more authentic than doing it in Lygon Street. As for the Flamenco…I don’t really know how to describe it. It was fantastically entertaining, but maybe not for the reasons it should have been. When the curtain on the stage lifted to reveal the backdrop of the Alhambra, illuminated in all its glory, the presentation began with a feeling of real cultural reverence. Then the musicians appeared. The three men looked like homeless buskers, and the female singer looked just like Fergie (from the BEP), with a similar penchant for slutty attire, and a voice which could shatter glass. The tone was lessened even more when the main dancer took to the stage. With no knowledge of the technicalities of Flamenco dancing, I was beyond impressed with her dancing skills. However, she possessed the facial tics of Hollywood-embellished Tourette’s and her mouth fluctuated between a Dick Cheney-sneer and a Smeagol-snarl. It was simultaneously hilarious and terrifying. 

The next day we did two tours: the free walking tour and our Segway excursion. Both of them took us on similar routes, focusing on the Moorish quarter of Albayzín. This was actually a really good thing because, on the walking tour we were able to learn about the sights, so on the Segway tour we could focus on the Segways. So….Segways: deceptively difficult to drive. The day before when we turned up for our original booking, we had a quick go on them just to get a feel. I got the hang of it quite quickly, initially finding it a lot easier than Ollie and Kaitlyn, my smallness somewhat of an advantage as Segways work on weight distribution and are extremely sensitive. Segways: deceptively awesome. I’m going to be honest, we had so much fun! And not even in an ironic, look-at-us-taking-the-piss-out-of-Segways sense. I want to buy my own Segway when I get home, ride it to work and around town. I am not being even slightly sarcastic here. 

The four of us had decided to take our awesome foursome to Valencia next, so we spent our last morning in Granada organising trains and accommodation for the next leg of our journey. The rest of the day was spent running mundane errands, the girls heading off to post stuff home, while Kaitlyn and I took care of our own loose ends. I wish I had gone to the Post Office instead, as that afternoon I bore witness too the biggest of Kaitlyn’s tantrums so far. While I was in Vodafone trying to get them to fix my SIM, Kaitlyn went off to the Mercadonnnna-Mercadona to buy a drink. When she walked in, I took one look at her face and knew I had to get her out of the shop before Vesuvius erupted. ‘What’s wrong? What happened?’
‘That F@#%ER ripped me off.’ 

What happened was this: Kaitlyn purchased two cans of Sprite and some chocolate, totalling a little over €2.00. She gave the man a €10.00 note, from which she received back a little over €2.00 in coins. Obviously, there was a €5.00 note missing.  Whether this was by accident or due to intentional-withholding by the man, we will never know. Regardless, Kaitlyn was aware of this at the time but, rather than say something to the man, she waited until she came back, leaving me to deal with her anger. ‘THAT F@#%ING F@#%ER. HE F@#%ING RIPPED ME OFF FIVE F@#%ING EURO. FOR F@#%S SAKE. I’D RATHER BE IN F@#%ING ITALY THAN THIS F@#%ING SHITHOLE.’ As always, I walked silently next to her, allowing her to irrationally sound-off . ‘JUST BECAUSE SPAIN IS IN F@#%ING DEBT DOESN’T MEAN THAT THEY CAN F@#%NG RIP ME OFF.’ She slammed her open can of Sprite into a rubbish bin, the force of her throw causing liquid to spurt back out all over her. I found this amusing and was hoping she would too, allowing it to snap her out of her paroxysm. Instead, it had the opposite effect, tipping her over the edge and she completely lost her shit. ‘F@#%!’ 

I have witnessed more Kaitlyn tantrums than I can count, experiencing her irrational anger at its best. But when she turned around and looked at me, I had never seen her look as furious and incensed as she did then. I was almost scared. She walked over to me, bent right down to my level and screamed at me ‘EUROPEANS ARE ALL BLACK @#%ING C@#%S. ALL OF YOU.’ She stood back up and turned around, focusing her attention on three elderly women sitting outside the El Cortes Ingles department store. She stuck her finger up at them, screaming ‘YOU’RE ALL F@#%ING SPANISH DICKHEADS. ALL OF YOU.’ They may not have understood exactly what she was saying, but the sentiment was clear to one and all. I looked over at them with what I hope was an apologetic expression, while Kaitlyn just barrelled on down the street, continuing to rant and rave. For the first time ever, I actually couldn’t even deal with it. I left her charging down the road, screaming obscenities at everyone she passed, and went into a shoe shop. 

About five minutes later she walked into the shop and approached me. ‘I have to apologise, don’t I?’ 
‘Yes. Unless you really think I’m a “black f@#%ing c@#%”.’
‘Oh my God. I said that, didn’t I?’ She had actually suffered a rage-blackout, hardly remembering a thing of what she had said. ‘You might also want to apologise to the elderly ladies you flipped-off and called “Spanish dickheads”.’

And, with the exception of a hostel-viewing of Casino Royale and a Kebab King No 1 dinner while we waited for our night train, that was Granada. 

Next stop, Valencia: Jaws, C-Dogg and the disbandment of CICK. 

How could you falter, when you the Rock of Gibraltar?

When people go to Europe, they go to Paris, Rome, London, Barcelona…Gibraltar is not usually on the list. And yet, two European trips in a row, I have ended up on the edge of the Iberian Peninsula, in the shadow of the famous rock. This time, I found myself there thanks to Kaitlyn’s friend Ollie, a British lad (yeah, I just used the word “lad”), living in Spain and crossing the border into the British territory every day for work. 

It was quite the journey from Barcelona to the southernmost-tip of the continent. We had to catch two trains, one from Barcelona to Antequera, and one from Antequera to San Roque, from where Ollie would be picking us up and taking us back to his crib in La Línea de la Concepción. When we booked our train tickets during the marathon session in Barcelona, we were told that there were two train stations in Antequera and the one we arrived at was not the one we would be departing from. We were assured that they were “very close together”. Yeah, and Gemma Ward’s eyes are “very close together”. Spain, I am aware your country is quite large, but mine is several times bigger and, in Australia, 18 KILOMETRES IS A VERY LONG WAY. When we arrived at Antequera-Santa Ana train station, we sought directions to the “other” station, thinking it would be a case of turning left (or right), crossing a road, turning a corner…that kind of thing.  

Despite having four-or-so hours until the next train left, we decided to head there immediately just in case something went wrong. We managed to find a taxi quite quickly and arrived at the Antequera station soon after. It was well into lunchtime by this point, and we had been told at Antequera-Santa Ana there was a café at this station. This was true, if one takes the concept of a café, knocks it down to the most basic variety, then changes it into a small, dirty room with a dirty table, a filthy floor and a grubby woman standing next to a grimy kettle, which looked more like a billy and more likely to produce a cup of gastro than a cup of coffee.  We walked in and walked out without exchanging a single word, careful not to breathe lest we inhaled something fatal. There was nothing else around, the station itself more like a tin shed and lacking in any kind of facilities. Walking with all of our stuff wasn’t really an option, so we decided that Kaitlyn would stay there with everything, while I went in search of supplies. There was a lack of development in the immediate surrounding area, so I headed up the hill towards what looked to be fairly modern structures. It was all residential and then I found one corner-shop-like place. Of course, it was the middle of the day and, therefore, siesta time. I was starting to think I would have to leave empty-handed and come back later on, when I turned one last corner and saw a supermercado ahead. 

Mercifully, the Mercadona (the Spanish equivalent of Coles or Woolies) didn’t adhere to the Spanish siesta-tradition, so I was able to walk straight in and start buying. And buy I did, everything from mozzarella and bread, to candied cashews and half the chocolate aisle. Although I did my shopping in the expeditious-manner only achievable by the woggiest of wogs, I then had to wait over twenty minutes in the queue. Despite what you might expect of me, I am a fairly patient queuer, so I wasn’t too perturbed by this…to begin with. You know that feeling of rage you get when you hear the Coles “Prices Are Down” jingle every three minutes in the shop? “Prices Are Down” has nothing on the “Mercadonnnna-Mercadona” jingle – in both irritation and frequency. Five minutes of standing in that line and I was ready to punch someone in the face. I made it back to Antequra Station without assaulting anyone, and we spent the next three hours eating our way through the food which, when it was all together in a bag, I concede was probably enough to feed all of the Antequeranos. Then again, have you met me?

The train ride to San Roque was only a couple of hours and Ollie was there to pick us up. About five minutes into our car journey he jokingly said, ‘I hope you’re not afraid of dogs.’ Now, in case you didn’t know, I have three fears: that Isaac Brock will accidently marry the woman he accidently proposed to before he met me, that Collingwood will win a Premiership before we do and leapfrog us on the  overall table, and dogs. I am terrified of all dogs, be they Chihuahuas or Rottweilers. I am not going to delve into the childhood dog- trauma which is responsible for this fear, but you must understand my terror is real and it is devastating. So, when Ollie asked this question, which was more of a flippant aside, I froze. Kaitlyn responded for me. ‘Why? Claire is. Claire really is.’ 
‘Oh. Really?’ Yes, really! I Have been known to cross a busy road and risk being maimed by a truck in order to avoid walking past a dog...some would say “puppy”.  ‘The guys have dogs.’ “The guys” were Ollie’s two housemates, but this wasn’t the issue. He said “dogs” – this is the plural form of dog. This meant there was more than one dog. ‘Dogs?’
‘Yeah. Rhys has three dogs.’ Not even two, three.
‘What sort of dogs?’
‘Well….’ He trailed off nervously. I wet my self nervously. I then blocked out everything which was said because hyperventilation was present and thriving. 

I went through all the motions of a canine-related panic attack: heart palpitations, trembling, nausea, sense of impending death. I hit de-realisation around the time we arrived in San Roque. We pulled into one of those complexes you see on A Place in the Sun and it was then I noticed that it was pitch black. I don’t mean pitch-black as in the-sun-has-set-it-is-night-time pitch-black, but where-are-the-lights-or-am-I-blind? pitch-black. With the aid of the headlights I was able to see bits and pieces around me. What I saw: cranes, skip bins, unfinished construction. What I didn’t see: electricity, people. The short version of the story is that the construction company responsible for this complex went broke during the GFC and only a handful of the places were built. As a result, Ollie, Rhys and Jonathan rented their amazingly nice place for a very nominal sum and had no neighbours. They also had no phone line, but otherwise they were living the high life. Well, as high a life as one can live when you share a place with three dogs. 

When we walked in the door I didn’t actually notice the opulence of the place, or even Ollie’s housemates; all I saw was the thing running towards me. Let me make it clear, it was not a dog – it was a freaking horse. I could have ridden her…Henry VIII and his six wives could have ridden her at the same time. I’m pretty sure I cried a little bit. Rhys picked up on my abject terror immediately, offering to put all three dogs outside. Even though I was very nearly about to die, I declined. It was a ridiculously nice offer, but there was no way I was going to come into their house and start dictating terms. When the other two appeared from
nowhere I nearly wet myself again. We sat outside on the balcony, four people and an obstacle-course of outdoor furniture separating me from the dogs. I was plied with alcohol in the hopes it would help. It didn’t. Especially when Jonathan took his turn at reassuring me. ‘She’ll only hurt you if she doesn’t like you.’
How reassuring.
‘She’s actually very gentle unless she’s threatened. Then it’s a different story. If she grabs a hold of your neck, her jaw is so strong she can snap it in less than five seconds.’ Apparently I wasn’t the only one who failed to see how this tidbit was supposed to comfort me. ‘Don’t worry! That won’t happen. She’ll like you. What Jonathan meant was that she looks tough, but really she’s 43 kilos of cuddly dog.’
‘43 kilos?!’ The dog weighed more than me. I wasn’t kidding about being able to ride her. When we went to bed that night, I contemplated putting a chair under the door handle to keep it safely locked. Although, given she could snap a human’s neck in less than five seconds, she probably could have employed her killer fangs and ripped through the wood in three seconds. 

The next day we headed down to Tarifa. It was memorable for two reasons:  a dog on a surfboard, and Kaitlyn’s sunburn. I’ll address the dog first. To begin with, it was a safe enough distance away for me to not be completely freaked out, so that was fortunate. He sat on the beach for at least an hour, patiently watching his owners windsurf, wandering up and down so he was always parallel with them. Even I will admit it was super cute. But it got cuter. When they were done windsurfing, they came and got him – and took him for a ride!!!! I should have been upset about it because it opened my eyes to the possibility that dogs can do this, thus making me aware of the fact that I’m not even safe from dogs when I go surfing. Not that I have ever been surfing, but I felt safe in the knowledge that, if I wanted to, I could do it without being mauled by a dog. Despite this revelation, I thought the whole thing was great. Less great was Kaitlyn’s sunburn. 

After spending the morning on the beach, watching the surfing dog, we went to a beachside bar for lunch. It was a surprisingly hot and sunny day, something we hadn’t really anticipated.  Because I am wog-white and not Anglo-white, I don’t burn in the sun, I just go black and, therefore, I wasn’t concerned. Kaitlyn, on the other hand, was concerned and found the only seat in the shade. This should have been problem-solved, but someone didn’t see a problem with sticking one arm out into the sun. I explained to her that the sun is a bit like Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak: if a limb or appendage is sticking out of the garment, it isn’t invisible by-proxy. If all of your body is in the shade but one limb is exposed to the sun, it isn’t protected because the rest of your body is. Oh, logic – for some people, it is completely elusive. 

Next stop was actual Gibraltar. Gibraltar really is the strangest place. If nothing else, you would have at least heard of the Rock of Gibraltar. Hopefully, you will know of it as one of the Pillars of Hercules but, if nothing else, you will know it from Jay-Z’s rap in Kanye’s “Diamond’s Are Forever”: ‘How could you falter when you the Rock of Gibraltar?’ Clever use of rhyme compromised, in my opinion, by being grammatically incorrect. Seriously, Mr Carter, all you had to do was employ an “are” in there, or if that was too much trouble, make the “you” a “you’re”. English – not as difficult as some people make it. Speaking of English, specifically the English, their continued rule of Gibraltar is a major bone of contention for the Spanish, who continue to assert claim to the territory. In what I assume is a move to continuously rub it into the faces of the Spanish, they have taken every possible British stereotype,  placed them on steroids and employed them in a way which makes walking around Gibraltar feel a little bit like walking around a British-equivalent of a Disney World replica “land” a-la Main Street, USA. For me, the best part of Gibraltar is its airport. The main road, Winston Churchill Avenue (see what I mean about Disney World?), intersects the airport runway. Subsequently, every time a plane arrives or departs, the road has to be temporarily closed; there are pedestrian lights on the damn runway. Significantly less amusing is the runway itself, which is amongst the most dangerous in the world. I didn’t think I would ever say this, but give me Hobart International Airport any day.

We headed back to the Ghost Town Compound after that. Two things I never thought would happen that evening did: I touched a dog which weighed more than me, and I rode on a motorcycle. When I say I “touched” the dog, I don’t mean I accidently brushed up against it resulting in inadvertent contact, but I actually patted it. From eyewitness reports and the photographic evidence, it appears my expression rapidly shifted back-and-forth between “Amy Eyes” and my half-horror-half-pained “I-have-to-go-to-Glenorchy-because-Norfgayte-Target-is-the-only-one-with-the-top-in-my-size” expression. Still, I patted it. I was experiencing so much personal growth, I was nearly big enough for the dog to ride me. 

That night Ollie and Rhys took us out for tapas, several of their friends joining us on a tour of their favourite bars. The best bit about tapas is that you are encouraged to sample everything, so you can eat a lot without people judging you. I tried everything vegetarian which, surprisingly, was a lot. The pinchos de encuritdos (pickled skewers of olives, peppers and chillis) and croquetas (croquettes) were my favourites, but I was equally as enamoured with the free shots they gave out at the last place we went to. Down in this part of Spain, you mostly get free tapas when ordering a drink. Buy drink, get free food: I wonder if I am part-Andalucían?


The next morning Ollie drove us to Algeciras from where we would catch the train to Granada. Although our time in La Línea and (with the dogs) was up, our time with Ollie was not, as he was also heading to Granada on the weekend to compete in a half-marathon. As he dropped us off before he started work, we arrived quite some time before our train. We attempted to go for a walk and seek-out food, but Kaitlyn’s tantrums were in full-swing, strengthened by her backpack rubbing on her sunburn. ‘F@#% THIS. I’M NOT WALKING ANY F@#%ING FURTHER. I’D RATHER SIT HER AND STARVE TO DEATH THAN WALK ANOTHER F@#%ING STEP. I MAY AS WELL BE DEAD ANYWAY, BECAUSE I’M PRACTICALLY A F@#%ING CRIPPLE FROM THIS F@#%ING PACK.’ There was some reference to sunburn rubbing the skin off the shoulder. This then led to the hyperbole of flesh rubbing off with it, leading to a suggestion of cannibalism, which lead to some snide remark about me being a “F@#%ing vegetarian who deserves to starve to death”. So we headed back to the train station, where we settled for coffee and toast from the cafeteria. My coffee was surprisingly quite good and, although Kaitlyn’s hot chocolate was presented as a deconstructed instant affair, it too was alright. 

Eventually hunger won out, so Kaitlyn stayed back with the packs while I went in search of a Mercadonnnna-Mercadona. I found one about half-an-hour’s walk away, a walk on which I was followed by a creepy old guy. I was definitely not in a good part of town, that much was clear, but I figured if I could handle a giant demon dog, I could handle a creepy Spaniard. When I left the Mercadonnnna-Mercadona, the man was hanging around outside and proceeded to follow me all the way back to the train station. I was starting to think that maybe I was being scouted for trade into child sex slavery and began to feel appropriately concerned. When I found myself at a busy intersection, I seized the opportunity and lost him, leaving him standing on the other side of the traffic without any human traffic of his own. Don’t mess with a midget, garcon. 

Giant dogs, sunburn and stalkers: hurdles managed without the slightest falter. Jay-Z, I see you your poor grammar, and raise you accurate syntax. India, Cheianne and the Alhambra await – Granada, here we come! 

Barcelona: a Kabul more dangerous than Afghanistan’s

If you ever go to Barcelona, do not stay at hostel Kabul. Unless your idea of a good time involves bed bugs, vomit, airborne STIs and a high probability of seeing someone OD, in which case you probably won’t find anywhere better. Given that Kabul, like Villa Saint Exupéry, is one of “Europe’s Famous Hostels”, one would expect it to be pretty great. Let me put it this way - the Kardashians are famous. Kabul is, hands down, the worst hostel I have ever had the misfortune of staying in. The reasons are innumerable but it does have one thing going for it: an amazing location. But first, we had to get there.

Our train to Marseilles left Nice at 7.55am, meaning we had to leave the hostel at about 7.00. It was absolutely pouring that morning, even with garbage bags covering Kaitlyn’s pack and my shell, they were still completely saturated by the time we got to the station. By 8.05 the train still hadn’t left, but we weren’t worried because we had almost two hours between our arrival in Marseilles and our bus departing. It was when the train stopped in the middle of the tracks at about 9.00am and they made everyone get off that we started to worry. We were standing outside beside the train for at least ten minutes before anyone official appeared. They made some cursory statement to placate everyone, the extent of which was that we were delayed. Well no merde, guys. Thanks for the informative news.

At least another twenty minutes went by, during which it started to rain. Then the official re-appeared. It was hard to hear him above the gale-force winds but I could make out at least two words: “annulé” and “Toulon”. “Annulé” means cancelled and “Toulon” means “Toulon, a town which isn’t Marseilles and not where your bus to Barcelona is leaving from”. People were shouting questions at the man and I had many of my own to shout. Most questions were being answered, but I was so stressed that I was struggling to process a single word of English, much less French. Eventually, I was able to make out that the train was unable to get to Marseilles and was instead detouring to Toulon, from where we would have to catch a different train to Marseilles. As we were all herded back onto the train, one of the children who had been incessantly screaming in the cabin next to ours for the entire trip, swung the carriage door right into me, smacking me in the face and sending me flying backwards into the door of the filthy bathroom which, unoccupied and not locked, crashed open upon impact and sent me flying onto its urine-coated floor. It took all of my strength to not cry. It’s probably a good thing I preserved those tears, as I ended up making good use of them later.

The train crawled to Toulon at a speed significantly slower than Flashdance’s neural oscillation activity. Our window to catch a train to Marseilles and catch our bus to Barcelona was getting narrower by the minute. The best way to describe Toulon when we arrived was SNAFU Central. There were people everywhere. Evidently, there was a problem with the rail system somewhere, and Toulon was the place we had all been dumped. The platforms were jam-packed with people waiting to get on trains and it quickly became obvious that it was a first-in-best-dressed situation. The chances of us getting to Marseilles and catching our bus were all but gone but, even if we did miss it, our best chance of making alternative arrangements lay at Marseilles’ much larger train station. With this in mind, we pushed our way to the front of the pack on the appropriate platform and, when the train pulled up, I engaged my shell and we made sure we were amongst the first people on-board. I probably knocked someone onto the tracks. I really didn’t care. With any luck it was the little brat who nearly gave me a concussion.

We arrived in Marseilles about forty minutes after our bus was supposed to leave. We tracked down the bus station in the hopes there was something we could possibly do but, alas, the next bus wasn’t until the following day. Having already paid for accommodation in Barcelona, we were determined to get there that night, so stingy is the back-packer mentality. Had we known then what we know now about Kabul, we would have been happier sleeping on the floor of the train station; happier (and safer) sleeping on the live train tracks. We made our way back to the train station to see what we could do about train tickets. The ticket hall was an absolute train-wreck (geddit?!) and made Toulon look like a military exercise in precision. We found the closest thing resembling a queue and jumped on the end. I recognised the two people in front of us from the train from Nice. They were Americans who were desperate to get to Barcelona to optimise their week-long honeymoon as, apparently, it would be “a complete waste of time” to only be there for six nights. Logic was lacking, but their “woe unto me” mentality was not. Did I mention she had a bad ankle? Well, she did. It was really sore. Their violin-playing was drowning out the furious ranting of the disgruntled French train passengers – maybe a blessing, but a twisted ankle is only interesting for so long and an hour well and truly exceeds this.

It was quite some time until we made it to the front of the queue and quite some more until we had secured train tickets to Barcelona that afternoon. Although there was a degree of jubilation of said acquisition, the knowledge that our journey was more broken than my heart upon hearing Ryan Gosling was dating Eva Mendes was quite sobering. Unfortunately, the only way we could get to Barcelona that day was to take this route – keep in mind each time we had to swap trains: Marseilles – Nice – Montpellier-St-Roch – Narbonne– Figueres – Barcelona. So as well as having to go back through Nice where we had started at 7.30 that morning, we had to swap trains four times just to get on the train to Barcelona. Add to this the two stops we had already made – three including the one in the middle of the tracks in Hicksville – and our journey looked like this: Nice – Hicksville –Toulon – Marseilles – Nice – Montpellier-St-Roch – Narbonne – Figueres –Barcelona. Keep in mind that it wasn’t just a matter of getting ourselves on and off the trains, but all of our stuff as well. Although I had definitely put on weight through the gaining of muscle, my shell still weighed more than half of me.

It wasn’t until late into the evening in Narbonne that we even had enough time between trains to track down food and water. Add hunger to the mix of stress, mental fatigue and physical exhaustion, and it’s a wonder neither of us didn't stab anyone. We took turns crying and we took turns sleeping, the only good part of our day coming when a little boy on the train from Montpellier-St-Roch gave us his bag of lollies. We must have looked so pathetic that, when he disembarked, he came over and left us at least 500grams of sweets. If he hadn’t been about eight years old, I would have kissed him. They were really, really good lollies and gave us just enough happiness to make it on and off the trains in Figueres and to Barcelona.

When we got off the train in Barcelona, this odd Australian girl befriended us. I say “befriended”, when what I really mean is “latched onto and leached off”. I don’t remember her name but I do remember it instantly being evident she was high, so I mentally called her Schappelle. Schappelle was travelling south the next morning but had no where to stay in the city that night and decided to follow us to Kabul to see if they had any spare beds. She also had no money to buy a metro ticket which I believe was the primary reason she “befriended” us. We had been travelling for seventeen and half hours by this point, so lending someone €1.00 was the least of our worries. Or so I thought, until she lit up a joint in the middle of the train station. ‘Really don’t think you should be doing that in here.’
‘You’re right, I should probably wait until we’re outside.’
Until “we’re” outside? I don’t think “we’re” going anywhere together, honey. 

We desperately tried to lose her, but she was like a damn bloodhound. We had to catch two different metro lines before emerging in La Plaça Catalunya and walking down La Rambla, arguably Barcelona’s busiest, most lively street. We tried our hardest to shake her during this walk, but she morphed from Schappelle into Mercedes and was freaking everywhere; we couldn’t escape her. Kabul is situated in the city’s premier plaza, La Plaça Reial, and we finally made it here minutes before 1.00am – 18 hours after leaving Villa Saint Exupéry. You would think our arrival after such a draining day of travel would have been nothing short of relief. It was, for about five seconds, until one of the security guys on the door offered us some coke. Not the beverage. At first I thought it was a joke, but it didn’t take us long to realise that things are done very
differently at Kabul. As we politely declined the offer of illegal narcotics and made our way inside, a girl came out wearing the most hideous dress I had ever seen. In fact, I’m fairly sure it was a belt, but she was wearing it as a dress. In many ways it was probably a good thing there wasn’t much of it because the garish, sequined material was hurting my eyes. Having said that, her streaky, dimpled skin wasn’t exactly a pleasant sight either. It was six to one, half a dozen to the other really. We checked-in and made our way up to our dorm, a room housing 20 occupants although, at that early hour (anything before 6.00am is early by Spanish-standards), we were the only ones in there. It was dirty and generally gross, but we were so tired we just went straight to sleep.

I woke up in the morning to a strange sound. In my sleepy-state, I struggled to identify it. It wasn’t until my sense of smell became engaged that I realised it was, in fact, someone throwing up. I sat up and looked around, eventually locking eyes on a girl in one corner of the room who was spewing her not-so-little guts out all over the floor. I was completely stunned when she lay back down, rolled over to face away from her vomit mound, and fell back asleep. But I didn’t have time to dwell on it because a guy in the bunk across from mine asked me a question. ‘Can you smell that?’
‘The vomit? Yeah, that girl just threw up. A lot.’
‘No, I can smell something else. It smells like piss.’ He was right, the room had suddenly taken on the distinctive odour of urine. He got up and looked around, seemingly trying to identify the source. He didn’t need to do much investigating; removing the blanket from on-top of his friend on the bunk below, the case was solved. ‘Oh my GOD! He’s PISSED himself! Holy F@#%!’ He seemed more amused than repulsed by it. ‘Hey dude, wake up! You’ve pissed yourself, man.’ With all of these bodily fluids flowing so freely, I felt it was time for a shower. As I got out of bed, I noticed two things in quick succession: the first was the sequined monstrosity from our arrival, haphazardly slung over the end of a bunk; the second was the six bodies on mattresses littering the floor and blocking the exit. Apparently when you pay for a dorm of 20, you actually get 25 other room-mates. Had I woken up in the middle of the night and needed to go the toilet (or, more likely, evacuate the premises because someone’s joint had caught alight and  the place was burning down), I would have tripped over someone and broken my neck. But it was quickly becoming evident OH&S wasn’t exactly a priority here –in fact, I’m not sure it was a factor at all. Welcome to Kabul.

We showered and high-tailed it out of there as quickly as possible, skipping the hostel breakfast in favour of doing our own thing in La Plaça Catalunya. It was an absolutely magical day, bright blue sky, the sun beating down. Barcelona is one of my favourite cities in the world, and it was a perfect Spanish day to wander around the city and explore it. We strolled down La Rambla which, with its tree-lined length filled with everything from cafés to street artists to prostitutes, is a colourful, vivacious Catalonian Champs-Élysées. We walked its length all the way down to the Columbus monument and onto Port Olímpic, basking in the sun, sand and water as we Australians like to do. We spent the afternoon wandering the wide streets, eventually heading through the Arc de Triomf and into the Parc de la Ciutadella. With its 40-odd acres of greenery, lakes, paths, fountains and the city's zoo, it was the perfect place to escape the heat of the day before heading back to the hostel to get ready for the evening.

On the way back we stopped off at the supermarket (a Carrefour) and were elated to discover that amaretto is only €4.00 a bottle in Spain as well. We spent the early evening on Kabul’s deck (its only positive feature), until the boys started appearing with their bongs, upon which we took our leave and drank the remainder of our amaretto while getting ready. Not that the room was all that much better but the vomit, at least, had been cleaned up. Kabul’s pub crawl was pretty average, as far as I was concerned. Kaitlyn, who met Apple (an Australian guy working in London for Apple) liked it a bit more. We started off in one bar which had the ability to house maybe a dozen people at a stretch - definitely not the 60-or so of us Kabul crawlers. From there we moved on to a shot bar which, while roomier, only let half of us in at a time. We literally had to take it in turns, half of the group going in and taking a shot while the other half waited outside, before swapping over. This was repeated several times until we all went back to Kabul. Yes, back to Kabul, where we had to wait for two hours until it was an acceptable time to herd us all into taxis and to some horribly pretentious club on the other side of town. Just to give you an idea, Zac Efron was there at the club. Can you imagine me frequenting an establishment where Zac Efron parties? Exactly.

The next day we woke up early hoping to find India and Cheianne who should have arrived the night before. It was hard to find anything that wasn’t illegal in the Kabul warren, let alone specific people, so we wandered off to get some food before the free walking tour. It appeared to be affiliated somehow with Kabul, so we didn’t have high expectations of it. They were lifted considerably when we spotted India and Chei across the plaza, also waiting for the tour. The tour was predominately of the Gothic Quarter, my favourite part of the city. The Barri Gòtic is an inviting jungle of alleyways, school yards, courtyards and shops, full of inspiration and surprises. Alas, in keeping entirely with the tradition of our attempts at free walking tours, it rained, impacting detrimentally on our enjoyment of it. It started off as a light drizzle but, after about an hour, it was a full-blown torrential downpour. We escaped most of in this great, quirky little café the tour leader took us to, where he divulged many an interesting fact over some brilliant café con leche. Did you know, Picasso was a total manwhore?

That night we planned to go to the Font màgica de Montjuïc – the Magic Fountain of Montjuïc. India had heard about it from someone and had asked the guy on the walking tour how to get there. He’d given us vagueish directions, so we set off to spend the evening there, stopping on the way for drinks. It was here, in a grotty little corner store, we met Don. I could wax lyrical about Don Simon all day, telling you he satisfied India, Cheianne and me like no one ever has – and probably ever will. But I won’t. You don’t need to know the sordid details. All you need to know is Don Simon is pre-packaged sangria. At €1.00 for 1.75l, I don’t think we would have cared if it tasted like copper. But, as the box states, Don Simon Sangria is a “top quality product”. (In case you were wondering, Don didn’t leave Kaitlyn high and dry but, given her aversion to red wine, she turned to Rekoderlig to satisfy her needs.) However, before we sampled Don for the first time, we had to find the fountain. Easier said than done. Can I just say, it had nothing to do with women not being able to follow maps - it was just that the map that we had was so incredibly abstract, I don’t think a cartographer could have made head of it. What also made it harder for us to find the fountain was the fact that it didn’t operate on Thursdays, at least at that time of year. This is probably something the tour leader might have wanted to mention. Nevertheless, we found a miniature fountain – well, more “water feature” than “fountain” and, with the assistance of Donny, still had ourselves a great night at the foot of Montjuïc hill. We ended up with a little bit of surplus Don and, as we planned to return the next night to see the actual fountain, we hid it in a bush with the intent of retrieving it. Just because Don was cheap, didn’t mean it was okay for him to go to waste.

The next day was Gaudí Day. If I could talk about Donny all day, I could talk about Antoni Gaudí all year. The figurehead of Catalan Modernism and, in my opinion, the world’s greatest ever architect, Gaudí is Barcelona. Even if you don’t know him by name, I guarantee you would be familiar with his work. Gaudí was an absolute genius and he is my homeboy. We spent the day visiting the Sagrada Família and Parc Güell. It was touristy, yes, but Gaudí’s masterpieces simply cannot be missed.  

We made our way back to Kabul to get ready for our second attempt at the Magic Fountain. We reconvened in the “bar” (which was about as much of a bar as my lounge room) and set off, first procuring a take away dinner from this amazing place we discovered called Maoz. Vegetarian, they did the most amazing falafels and salads, you could fill up a large container for €3.00. We made a second stop for some more Donny (we didn’t have enough hidden to last us very long) and with that we were off. This time we had no trouble finding the fountain, not just because this time we knew where we were going, but because there were thousands of people crowded around it. Our trip the night before paid off in more ways than one: firstly, Don was still patiently waiting for us in his bush, ready to service us again; secondly, our spot next to the Magic Water Feature of Montjuïc turned out to be the perfect vantage point of the fountain, especially when the rain started and we were protected by a wonderful awning. The fountain itself really was magical. Nothing I can say will ever be able to do it justice. The co-ordinated light and music show was beyond spectacular. We sat and devoured the whole thing and, despite it running for over two hours, we were disappointed when it came to an end.

We made our way back to Kabul and, as we weren’t sure what else to do, joined the pub crawl again. If nothing else, it was actually quite a cheap way to obtain several drinks. While we were waiting in the “bar” for the crawl to leave, we happened across a sight even more spectacular than the Magic Fountain. We were sitting at a table when India, seated opposite Kaitlyn and I said, ‘When I tell you to, turn around and check out the girl behind you. Curly hair.’

‘Okay. Tell me when.’ Her and Chei were struggling to hold in laughter, so I figured it must be good. It was better than good. I turned around and made eye-contact with the two largest, creepiest eyes I had ever seen. Much like the Magic Fountain, nothing I say will properly describe their shockingness. But I will try. Imagine if Marina Prior and Kero Kero Keroppi reproduced. That, my friends, is probably an accurate indication of what this girl looked like. I was once told by an optometrist that my eyes were too big for my face, but this girl’s eyes took up at least a third of her visage. And it wasn’t just the size of them, but the shape – good Lord the shape! They were round and were bulging out of the sockets, protruding at least an inch, practically in-line with the bridge of her nose. She looked like a tarsier. She was terrifying – half human, half predatory primate. I could imagine her feeding off all of us the way a tarsier feeds off lizards. Kaitlyn and I turned back around our eyes, I imagine, unconsciously mirroring Kero’s. Kaitlyn summed up all of our thoughts, ‘What the f@#%?!’

The first stop was the hovel of a bar from the last pub crawl. As we stood around waiting to go inside, I started taking notice of all the other girls there. When I say “take notice”, I could very well mean “conducted a gynaecological exam”; I saw breasts, I saw va-jay-jay, I saw cervix. What I didn’t seen much of, was modesty. In fact, I am quite certain that the four of us were the only girls who weren’t exposing at least our nipples. To make matters even worse, the pub crawl leader was hooking these girls up with a myriad of drugs, not really necessary when they were barely able to stand up as it was. One of the girls, sporting a particularly revealing leopard-print body-con “dress” bent over right in front of us, allowing us to be certain that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. That was the night Slut Dress became known as Nun Dress. It wasn’t a huge one, as we were saving ourselves for an epic Saturday the next night. Without a doubt, the highlight came when we returned to Kabul. We always took the stairs, so I’m not sure what prompted us to take the lift on this occasion. Maybe we knew the human spookfish was inside. We rushed in and, there she was, leaning up against the back of the lift, all gobbley-eyed. She turned her Twisted Whiskers gaze onto each of us. We tried not to laugh. We were not successful.

The next morning, the four of us decided that we would go the train station to organise our tickets for our next journeys, before enjoying an awesome breakfast somewhere. It was quite exciting because the girls were heading to Granada a couple of days after we left Barcelona, and we were heading to southernmost Spain for two days before hitting up Granada ourselves, so we had decided to get a room together. Provided we didn’t become Kabuli casualties before then. We made our way to the train station, expecting to find the ticket counter, book our tickets and leave. We found the ticket counter and took a number. This wouldn’t have been an issue if 300 other people hadn’t taken numbers before us– 300 other people who were still waiting to be served. In the time we waited, I could have moved a sand dune from one end of the station to the other with tweezers. Advice from an objective foreigner: if you have 21 counters servicing the ticketing for the “Larga distancia” routes and there are droves of people waiting, perhaps you should staff more than four of them. Eventually we were all served and, with tickets booked for Monday (for us) and Wednesday (for the girls), we went off in search of food.

Even though it was past lunchtime by this point, we had tracked down an Irish pub which offered all-day breakfasts. They also offered waitresses who were all-day bitches. For reasons I cannot remember, after looking at the menu, we all ended up deciding on burgers and chips rather than breakfast. It might have been in order to take full-advantage of the dozen-or-so condiments on offer. Despite the fact we made eye-contact several times and eventually started gesticulating to the waitress, she continued to stand in the corner polishing cutlery – cutlery she had already polished at least twice, staring back at us, her eyes taunting us with a “I’ll-come-when-I’m-good-and-ready-watcha-gonna-do-about-it?” expression. Whore. When she did eventually grace us with her presence, she made the process of taking our orders seem like the greatest hardship she had ever endured. She sighed, she huffed, her eyes rolled so far back into her head she would have been able to see her pygmy-sized brain. When we asked for a fourth set of cutlery, given than there were four of us and all, you’d have thought we’d asked her to be a surrogate. We found it quite amusing that, when she did finally bring some over, it was filthy, despite the fact she spent at least two minutes polishing each piece while she kept us waiting.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon wandering around the neighbourhood before heading back to Kabul. We had enjoyed the Magic Fountain so much the previous night that we had decided to go back there again. As we were staying in different dorms we again made plans to convene in the “bar” before heading out. Just before we left, we spotted Kero using one of the computers to check her Facebook. It was funny because, despite having a similar eye-to-face ratio to Spongebob Squarepants, she had her face less than an inch from the screen. As well as being humorous to watch, it allowed us to do a stealth walk-by and see that her name was Amy. We hit up Maoz for some takeaway dinner, the corner store for some Donny and Rekorderlig and made our way up to the Magic Fountain, reassuming our position next to the Magic Water Feature. If anything, the show was even more spectacular.

We headed back to Kabul so we could get ready for our big night out. The pub crawl that night was going to Razzmatazz – five clubs in one. In typical Spanish-fashion, it wasn’t leaving the hostel until 1.ooam, so we decided to go out and get our drunk on first. We went to our respective rooms to change. I went down to the bathrooms to hot-up which was where I found Amy. She was leant-up against the bench, nose pressed-up against the mirror as she lined her bulging eyes with pencil. I assume she was using a dark colour to make them appear more deep-set. While I was standing there, a few more girls Amy obviously knew came in and started their primping routines. They were talking about make-up and Amy offered this: ‘I, like, don’t know why, but I go through so much eyeliner. Like a pencil a week. It’s so weird.’ My eyes watered so much from the exertion of trying not to laugh that I had to take off all my eye make-up and start again. The four of us didn’t venture far, finding an Irish pub just off La Plaça Reial. It was packed with what appeared to be heaps of men on bucks nights, none of whom were attractive. There was also a guy who looked just like Stephen K. Amos, but a quick Google search led to the disappointing discovery Stephen was in Australia.

We arrived back at Kabul in time for the pub crawl. In fact, we headed back way too early and had to wait in the “bar” for a long time. While we were waiting, India and Chei introduced us to “Who Invited?” In the same vein as nicknaming people, “Who Invited?” is used when someone looks like someone else or embodies characteristics of someone or something. For example, rather than saying “That guy looks like Stephen K. Amos”, you would say “Who invited Stephen K. Amos?”. Apparently the best (read: hilariously inappropriate) one the girls had employed so far was the “Who invited the Death Eaters” in London. Upon closer inspection, it became apparent they were actually women in black burqas. When one of them said ‘Who invited Nate Archibald?’, I practically gave myself whiplash turning around to get a look. Chace Crawford isn’t really my type, but the Kabuli talent had been lacklustre at best, so the prospect of a Nate-lookalike was exciting.

The crawl finally got going. It appeared the entire hostel was hitting up Razzmatazz that night…well, that morning, I guess. We had to catch a metro there and, on the way, I got talking to Nate and his friends who turned out to be Irish. I was starting to think Razzmatazz was some kind of ironic name for the place as the industrial neighbourhood it was in had about as much glitziness as Glenorchy. Although it wasn’t exactly the ostentatiously snazzy place its handle suggested, the place was ridiculous…in a good way. It was, indeed, five clubs in one: Indie, Techno, R&B, Pop and something else. It was absolutely enormous - I didn’t even find the Pop or R&B rooms until I stumbled upon them when I was leaving hours later. The Indie area was the bomb with excellent music: Two Door, M83, TV On The Radio, Animal Collective – my personal collection, essentially. While the music was great, the drinks were not. You can’t really stuff-up a vodka soda, so I was okay, but Chei’s vodka lime was a huge glass of vodka and lime syrup. Razzmatazz may have been light on skilled barmen, but it wasn’t light on the amusing clubbers: geriatric pervs, people dressed as chickens. There was no Zac Efron this time around, but we did have two doppelgängers: “Who invited Che from The OC?” and “Who invited Draco Malfoy?”. The girls went home a bit before me, I stayed-on with Nate and his friends. He may have looked like Nate Archibald but, as the night wore on, it became apparent he was more like Chuck Bass in character. Actually, no, he was more Jack Bass. He and his friends were complete wankers, even the several drinks they bought me didn’t make them anything more than borderline-tolerable.  

The next day was Kaitlyn and my last day in the city. We had seen all the sights on our list and had no agenda, so we took the day as it came, eating ice-cream and aimlessly wandering the streets and alleys around us. We did, however, have plans for our evening: the movies. After spending the latter-half of my night with a group of assholes who excelled in misogyny, my opinion of the male species had diminished considerably. There was only one way to restore my faith in men: Ryan Gosling. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in Barcelona knocking on my dorm-door and offering to do this in person (I imagine he was holed-up in a palatial bungalow on a private Caribbean island with that fugly slurry, Eva Mendes – I am so much hotter than her but, whatever), but a ten-foot shirtless-version projected on the big-screen was the next best thing. The four of us found a cinema which showed English films in their original formats (i.e. non-dubbed) and, with a final takeaway from Maoz, sat back and enjoyed Crazy, Stupid, Love. Did I mention Ryan has a topless scene in this film? What a way to finish up in Bar-tha-lona.

Next stop, southernmost Spain: La Línea de la Concepción and Gibraltar.