Looking Christmasy In Paris

As you may recall, we had initially intended to travel to Ireland from Scotland earlier on in our trip. Thanks to some Gallic football match, it was going to cost some ridiculous amount to do so at that time, so we decided instead to leave the Emerald Isle until the end of our trip when we were able to get a cheap flight from Paris. Paris was always going to be the final destination of our adventure as it is where we are flying out. It seemed fitting because Kaitlyn and I first met studying French in first year uni. Now, because of our flight to Dublin, we were splitting our time in Paris - two days to begin with, five days in Ireland, and our final week back in the City of Lights. Adding extra light to the first Parisienne sojourn was my friend Luke. I have known Luke (I call him Angel, he calls me Calista) since we were tiny little children and, now living in London and working as a flight attendant for Qantas, he was joining us in the French capital for a couple of days.

Arriving in Paris the night before Luke, direct from San Sebastián, we had booked into St Christopher’s Hostel – the same “chain” of hostels as the one we stayed at in Edinburgh. From Gare Montparnasse we had to catch one metro line several stops to Gare de l’Est where we had to swap to another metro line and travel a whole lot more stops until we arrived at Crimée where, after a short walk, we arrived at the hostel. I am aware that this sounds relatively straight forward, however, 40 minutes of travel on metros in peak-hour, backpacks strapped on, squashed up like sardines with Parisiennes openly cursing you for taking up too much room…incredibly stressful. How Kaitlyn didn’t throw a tantrum, I will never know…it was a real milestone for us – I felt like a proud mother.

We checked-in, showered and decided to have dinner and drinks in the bar downstairs which was already pumping. It was an excellent decision on our part as the drinks and food were both cheap and absolutely delicious. If only we had left after dinner and kicked-on somewhere else. We were sitting on our own after eating, making the most of the cheap, happy hour cocktails, when Kaitlyn’s eyes took on an Amy-like expression. ‘Oh. My. F@#%ing. God.’
‘What?!’ I swung around in my seat and, no doubt, mirrored her expression. ‘Oh. My. God.’
‘Is this happening?’
‘I think so.’ Our worst fears were confirmed when, from across the room, we heard a shriek. Two shrieks. Two shrieks belonging to Flashdance and *Pound-pound-peace* RB. Flashdance and Rape Buddy were in Paris. At our hostel. Coming towards us. Pound-pound-peacing us. Hugging us. ‘Oh my GOD! *Pound-pound-peace*. You guys are here.’
Our thoughts exactly.
‘I knew we’d see each other again one day, but not so soon!’

The next thing we knew, they’d invited themselves over to our table and we were “catching up”. In the three and half weeks since we’d last seen them, they had spent three days in Lyon and three weeks in Nice – that’s three more weeks in Nice to go with the six weeks they’d been there beforehand. The good news was Flashdance had a new passport now and they were heading back to the States in the morning. ‘So...you’re not going to Korea anymore?’
‘No. Well we are. Just not right now.’
‘Yeah, turns out we don’t have the right visas and stuff.’
You didn’t think to check that before you left?
‘We didn’t actually realise we needed visas.’
Of course you didn’t. It appeared that, in the time since 
we’d seen them, Flashdance and *Pound-pound-Peace* RB had hit rock bottom. And started to dig.

We had to endure the entire evening with them, chatting about all the things we had done since we’d left Nice, along with all the things they hadn’t done in that time. Hours later, we were still sitting there, “laughing together” about all the “fun times we shared” in Nice. They were encouraging us to pick our “favourite memory” of our time together. Obviously, I had two – the moments they earned their nicknames. Instead, I settled for some lame story about having dinner together. Then *Pound-pound-peace* RB turned to Kaitlyn and, completely out of the blue goes, ‘So, I know you were calling me a slut to everyone at the hostel.’ I took this moment to snap a group picture of the four of us and send it to India and Chei. Somehow Flashdance and *Pound-pound-peace* RB tricked Kaitlyn into buying food for them. She got her own back though when she managed to spill a drink all over *Pound-pound-peace* RB’s archaic computer. It blinked-off, it hissed, it started freaking smoking. We used this opportunity to say our goodbyes and take our leave. ‘Well, Sarah and I are totally going to come and visit you two in Australia.’
Yeah, sure you are.
‘It’s going to be so great! How much fun will it be to road trip around the outback together?’
Honestly? I’d rather eat glue.

The next morning, Luke arrived. There is no way I can describe Luke and do him justice. Take every flight attendant stereotype you can think of, put them all on steroids, add equal parts of snobbery and pretention, shake hard and strain into a highball glass filled with cubes of hilarious, hedonistic fun. That, my friends, is Luke. He walked into the hostel in a navy, Ralph Lauren trench, threw his Louis Vuitton wallet and Prada-encased iPhone onto the table, unceremoniously threw himself into a chair, and complained about how tired he was. ‘OMG. I. Am. Exhausted.’

‘So work’s been stressful?’

‘Umm...yes. Well, stressful trying to look busy. And it’s not easy trying to look busy in First Class. Touch trolley. Tap galley. Run to cabin. Do a twirl. Run back to galley. Look important. Clink the ice. Pick up the phone. Touch the door. Big door. Heavy door. Look to economy. Purse lips. Close curtain. And touch up before touch down. So, this “hostel-thing”? How does it work, exactly?’ We explained to him how the “hostel thing” worked and, with that, we were off.

We spent the day being tourists – tourists with money. We wandered along the Champs-Élysées, Luke trying on leather cuffs in Louis Vuitton, €800.00 coats in Ralph Lauren and critiquing the attire of each and every passer-by. ‘Did you see that suburban monstrosity? LOL!’ (Yes, Luke uses “chatspeak” in everyday conversation.) We were sitting in Starbucks sipping our Venti-skim-salted-caramel-lattes when a lady walked in clutching a Versace for H&M bag. ‘OMFG. OMFG. Can you see that? She has one. It has started.’ “It” was the Versace-designed line of clothing and accessories for H&M and we had to rush straight to H&M where, while he waited to try on the 4,000 things he had in his arms, he gave us a running commentary of the women coming out of the change rooms. ‘I would baa-baa if it weren’t so unbecoming.’

‘...’

‘Mutton dressed as lamb, babe. ROTFL.’

From the Champs we made our way to the 4th arrondissement, checking out my favourite building in the city, Hotel de Ville and Notre Dame. On a previous trip, Luke had spent time on some play equipment outside the famous cathedral and was keen to play on it again. And we did, until some children turned up wanting to play. Luke begrudgingly vacated the equipment to let them have a turn, only after we practically had to force him off. He then proceeded to stand right next to the various apparatuses, staring the children down until they left.

From Notre Dame we headed back towards the hostel. Kaitlyn and I had both been hankering for haircuts, myself in particular as my usually monthly-trimmed fringe was down past my nose and, with my mutant wog eyebrows, pinning it back wasn’t an option. Kaitlyn was also keen to get rid of her “Vegemite stripe” (regrowth) before going to Ireland and recreating P.S I Love You. It was actually Flashdance and *Pound-pound-peace* RB who had told us about a hairdresser right near the hostel. Usually they would be the last two people I would ever take fashion and beauty tips from, however they did have very nice haircuts which were really quite cheap. Luke went back to the hostel for a powernap while we went to the hairdresser to see if she could fit us in. The lady who ran it was Vietnamese and, although she spoke French, it was so heavily-accented we could barely understand a word. She spoke no English, but her daughter arrived soon after us and, between the four of us, we were able to organise two haircuts.

I went first, while Kaitlyn flicked through a few magazines to try and find a picture she liked, still umming and ahhing about whether to have a fringe cut. The daughter sat in the chair next to me, translating everything her mother said in Vietnamese. ‘Mum says you have very nice hair. It is very…bien portant.’
‘Healthy?’
‘Yes. Very healthy. Mum says hair very soft.’  When it was Kaitlyn’s turn, Mum wasn’t quite as complimentary about her tresses, her comments not losing their bluntness in translation. ‘Mum says you have very bad hair. Very damaged. Mum says you not look after. Mum says you not had hair cut for long time.’
‘About three months.’
‘No. Mum says half a year. More than half a year.’

I was really, really happy with my haircut as was Kaitlyn who made an appointment to come back in the morning and have it coloured. We took our chic Parisienne haircuts back to the hostel and got ready to show them off. As we had the night before, we stayed in the hostel bar, drinking cheap cocktails and being generally fabuleux. We got to chatting again with two hommes britanniques we had been talking to the night before. Felix and Michael were almost as funny as Luke and we somehow ended up going back up to their room and taking it in turns showing each other our favourite YouTube clips, well into the early hours of the morning.


I don’t think Luke was particularly taken with the hostel breakfast. Arriving downstairs, even his sunglasses weren’t able to hide the look of disdain from his face.  ‘I can’t deal with this ATM. I need Starbucks.’ And, while Kaitlyn had her hair done, we went in search of Starbucks. The closest one to us was right opposite the Moulin Rouge, so we marched there, through some slightly seedier parts of the city. Luke nervously clutched at his phone, ‘Calista, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.’
‘As Hobartains, Angel, we can agree there’s “no place like home”.’
‘I’d LOL if I didn’t think it would attract attention and get us stabbed.’  We made it to Starbucks without being knifed, enjoying our beverages not 100 metres from the famous French cabaret. As two musical theatre and entertainment tragics, it was a bit of a moment for us. A moment Luke caught on camera, forgoing the pedestrian “say cheese” with the “look Christmasy, Calista”.

We walked back to collect Kaitlyn from the coiffeur. No longer sporting her Vegemite stripe, she was instead modelling locks she deemed “yellow, not f@#%ing blonde”. I, personally, didn’t see anything wrong with them, but she was far from impressed by her new shade. ‘Gerard Butler won’t even f@#%ing look at me with hair like this.’ I didn’t think the best way to console her would be to tell her I didn’t think Gerard Butler was going to be looking at her at all. Montmartre was the first stop on our itinerary, so up the famous hill we climbed. Paris is, undoubtedly, a city with which I feel a great affinity, and this attraction, this kinship is best felt in Montmartre. While I will admit that Amélie and its very personal connection to my parents and me has a lot to do with it, its Bohemian culture, rich artistic history and exquisite views down over the entire city are equally significant drawcards for me. Montmartre is as quintessentially Parisienne as you can get, albeit quite touristy – and we embraced that touristiness to the nth degree, eating crepes by Sacré Cœur and sipping mulled wine on the stairs of the Rue Foyatier.

We continued our touristy assault on the city, next taking on the Eiffel Tower. When we passed it on the train, Kaitlyn’s response was ‘It’s smaller than I thought it would be.’ But, as we walked towards it, its lattice iron shimmering in the setting-sun, it was impossible to not be swept-up in the majestic symbol of the city. Say what you will about treading the weary, hackneyed paths of tourism – things become popular attractions for a reason, and sometimes you have to join the masses and experience them for yourself.

Another night, another evening in the hostel bar – although an early one it was this time, as our flight to Dublin necessitated a 5.00am start for Kaitlyn and me. We had a fun few days with Luke, cocktails and laughs the appropriate way to finish it off. The failure of the barman to drop what he was doing and serve Luke immediately was a bone of contention with mon ami, his nail-tapping and exaggerated sighing an almost melodious accompaniment to our (very brief) wait. When we were served, Luke dropped the “Christmasy” expression he had been wearing all day, adopting instead the look he “usually reserves for the poor people in economy”. ‘You make me wait, I’ll make you regret it. Fighting ‘tude with ‘tude.’  

Au revoir, Angel; Paris, à bientôt – nous vous voir dans une semaine. Dublin, nous arrivons!

Basquing In Our Own Beauty

Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao

In the western Pyrenees, in the land where Spain and France meet the Atlantic, you will find the Basque Country. Although not a country in its own right, the Basque Country is completely different to Spain and France, with its own distinctive culture and language. Arguably, its two most famous locations are the industrial city of Bilbao, home to Frank Gehry's renowned architectural masterpiece, the Guggenheim Museum and the coastal town of San Sebastián. We planned to check out the Guggenheim before heading onto San Sebastian for a few relaxing days of recuperation before our hectic final stops of Paris, Ireland and Paris. 

We travelled from Bahl-ehn-thee-ahh to Zaragoza, before heading onto Bilbao. We had a few hours in Zaragoza and, after leaving our luggage in lockers at the station, walked into the town to explore. We had left Bahl-ehn-thee-ahh very early in the morning, not having time for a proper breakfast. It was after lunch when we arrived so we were ravenous and food was our first priority. We found a Mercadonnnna-Mercadona almost immediately, grabbing supplies for a delicious lunch and then a bench on which to enjoy it. We had only been there a few minutes when an old lady approached us. She said something to us in Spanish to which we replied we were Australian and didn’t speak Spanish. How about Basque? No, we’re two of the only Australians not fluent in Basque. Italian? No. She didn’t speak French either, so we had no way of communicating...although this didn’t deter her. She simply took another step closer and kept talking away in Spanish. 

Have you seen Drag Me To Hell? She looked like the insane gypsy lady and, as the conversation progressed and she started to finger Kaitlyn’s sandwich and painfully clutched my hand to “admire” my rings, I was starting to think she was going to banish us to hell for eternity like in the movie. I realise it probably doesn’t sound very frightening, one old lady and two fit young girls, but I assure you she was terrifying. She was trying to make us get up and follow her, we think maybe to her home, but we kept resisting. She started to get quite frustrated with us and then told us to stay as she ducked inside a shop. We didn’t even have to exchange words, grabbing our stuff and literally sprinting back towards the station. Oh, Zaragoza, hopefully one day I will be able to come back and see some of your wonderful Mudéjar architecture...so long as Grandma’s not waiting to drag me to hell. 

Just before we got on the train to Bilbao, I received an email from the hostel we had booked there. This is what it said:

We have 12 rooms for the day.
divert the pension book Bilbao. Under the same conditions. Sorryfor the inconvenience.
c/ Amistad nº2 4º izda.
Bilbao. tfn.: 944246943
mail:pensionbilbao@telefonica.net
Very close to us.
Its reserve is confirmed.

You can understand why we were confused. “Divert the pension book Bilbao”? I replied, nicely, asking them if they could explain this a bit better. We never heard back. When we arrived in Bilbao it was late and dark. We had chosen the hostel we had because of its close proximity to the train station. Finding the new place on a map and seeing it was further, we decided to take a cab there. It wasn’t too far away, but with all our things and at the late hour, a taxi was the safer, more sensible option. When we arrived, the man there was clearly not expecting us. He didn’t speak any English, but he phoned the location of the original booking and, thankfully, someone there did. I spoke to them on the phone. Apparently, they didn’t mean to send us that email, our reservation still at the original hostel. As it was a Saturday night, we had obviously fluked getting a taxi the first time around and had no such luck the second. We trudged all the way back to where we started, arriving at the first hostel which was right next door to the train station.

We spent the morning in the city, wandering around and checking out the Guggenheim, before catching the bus to San Sebastian. 

Puppy by Jeff Koons

Surfers flock to San Sebastian to enjoy the waves and the laid-back resort-like way of life – a blasé, carefree lifestyle evident in our hostel which, in its foyer, replaced the typical welcome sign with the poetic “Happy F@#%ing”. Although not surfers, we too were in San Sebastián to relax and have fun, instead using the beach and beachfront promenade for a wanky photoshoot, something we hadn’t done since Vienna.  

Despite the laid-back, carefree nature of the town and its activities, San San Sebastian wasn’t able to alleviate Kaitlyn of her tantrum syndrome. The first blow-up was less of a tantrum and more of a heated discussion with a New Zealand guy who worked at the hostel. Prior to dinner, the two of us had gone to the pub for a drink. The man there suggested we try the local cider and presented us with two large glasses each holding a very small amount of liquid. At first we thought he was taking the piss, but we soon realised that this was our beverage. It was bizarre but, it was what it was. Afterwards, we went back to the hostel to make dinner. A group of the guys who worked there were also in the kitchen preparing food and drinking – drinking cider. We told them about our experience, and the New Zealander explained it to us. Spanish cider, sidra, is typically poured in very small quantities into a wide glass from a considerable height in order to produce air bubbles in the drink. This apparently gives it a sparkling quality similar to that of champagne but, as it only lasts a short time, one must essentially “shot” the liquid in one go. Having had it explained to us, it made sense....to me, at least. ‘That’s f@#%ing ridiculous. If I wanted a shot, I would have ordered a f@#%ing shot.’
Kiwi was your typical laid-back surfer so he was non-plussed by her response, offering her some of his cider. ‘You really should try it, it’s great, ay. Here, I’ll give you some.’
‘I don’t want any. I want actual cider in an actual glass. An actual f@#%ing drink.’
‘You should try some while you’re here though. Experience a bit of the culture, ay.’ Now, I will concede that, while he did, in fact, say “ay” a lot, he didn’t say it quite as much as Kaitlyn let on.

‘I am experiencing some of the f@#%ing culture, ay. I just wanted a f@#%ing drink of f@#%ng cider that I could drink from for more than one f@#%ing second. Some f@#%ing Bulmers, ay. I don’t need you to tell me how to experience the f@#%ing culture. Ay.’ 

‘I just meant that, while you’re here, you might try some Spanish cider, ay. Because you’re in the country, especially up here in this region, it would be good to try the local drink.’
‘So you’re telling me I’m not being f@#%ing cultural enough ay? You have no idea what I’ve been f@#%ing doing culturally. And so, ay, I want a f@#%ing drink of proper f@#%ing cider, ay. If I wanted a f@#%ing sip of f@#%ing cider, ay, I would have f@#%ing ordered that, ay. AY.’ 

The rest of us all sat there eating and drinking, watching the exchange. Eventually, they stopped arguing, but Kaitlyn kept making little digs where possible. When one of them asked what we had planned for the night, her response was ‘Going out. Being all cultural and shit, ay.’ Just as we were about to leave, they discussed from whom they were going to buy their marijuana for the evening. ‘Oh! You’re going to go and get stoned are you, ay? How f@#%ing cultural of you. Nothing says “Spanish f@#%ing culture” more than smoking a joint, ay.’

The second incident came after a failed attempt to upload photos to Facebook on one of the hostel’s laptop computers. It wasn’t a complete failure – at least, it wouldn’t have been if she hadn’t given up on it for being too slow. I too was uploading pictures and finding the whole process slower than it typically is. I, however, persevered and eventually found success. Kaitlyn, after giving up on the first computer, tried a different one. Finding this to be just as sluggish, she went nuts. ‘THIS COMPUTER. F@#%ING ASSHOLE C@#%. I’M GOING TO F@#%ING RIP THIS ONE IN HALF.’ She slammed the lid down and stormed out, a complete basquet case. Only a few seconds later she returned, vocally calmer although still physically seething. She reached over me, ‘Excuse me. And I’ll rip this one in half as well because that one doesn’t work so let’s rip that one in half.’ And she slammed that one closed, focusing her attentions on the one I was using, narrowly missing my fingers as she slammed that one closed also. She made her way through the room roughly closing each laptop. ‘There we are, put that back in, close that. Annnnd sorted. Thank-you.’ And with that she left.  There was a guy sitting in the room on his own computer. He turned to me and said, ‘Do you know her?’ 
‘Yep. I’m travelling with her.’ He just looked at me and then back out at her retreating figure. I gave her ten minutes to cool off and then tracked her down in our room. I found her there, outburst seemingly forgotten, calmly selecting clothing items to be tossed so we arrived in the French capital with plenty of room for new, Parisenne purchases. 


Paris – get ready because we’re coming!

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.