Disclaimer: in the interests of recording history as accurately as I can, I may use rather foul language in this blog. For the more open minded, not-so-easily-offended, please continue. Pa, I am so sorry.
Do not go to Milan.
Actually, let me rephrase. By all means, go to Milan if
1) you are a fashion model - then please, strut these uninspiring streets in all your grasshopper glory
2) if you are simultaneously a fashion obsessist and made of money (in which case you JUST might be a fashion model anyway). Shoppers Dee and I may be, made of money we certainly are not.
3) you are using Milan as a stopover, your gateway into one of the most beautiful, exciting and exhilarating countries in the world
We flew into Milan from Malaga, Spain, a cheap flight that would get us out of Spain and into Italy. It was a full day of travel before we checked into our Milan 'hotel' at midnight. A bus from Granada to Malaga station, a bus from Malaga station to Malaga airport, a plane from Malaga to Milan and then a bus from Milan airport to Milan city (oh, how familiar I am with the Spanish and Italian bus system now. When in doubt, there will always be a bus.) From the centre of Milan, we caught an extortionate cab to our hotel. Which leads me to my next point.
If you are ever in Milan (going against my advice, because I know none of you are fashion models, and I question to what extent made of money applies) do not stay in Adellci Hotel. Do not be fooled by the word 'hotel' tacked onto its name. It may be the cheapest thing on hostel world.com, because, in Milan, it costs to breathe (unless you are a fashion model, I would imagine it is free then, and probably comes with a complimentary hit of coke) but do not be sucked in by its soothingly cheap price tag. In fact, do not be sucked in by the word hotel. It is not a hotel, it is a horror movie set masquerading as a hotel. It may have a few sheets of foolscap paper scattered across the school desk which moonlights as reception on the odd occasion customers actually check in, but this is simply a guise of professionalism. It would have been ok, if our door actually locked properly. I could have even overlooked the fact that the toilet across the hall didn't sport the, I would have thought, necessary appendage, of a door. The one next door to our room did though, because Satie locked herself into it ... she could be heard to wail, as we jostled to get her free, 'this is how I die, isn't it.'
Do, however, go to Venice. If you do anything in your lifetime, make it Venice (or Florence, or Rome, or Siena ... or, really, just Italy). Venice is beautiful. Venice is picturesque, photogenic, ridiculously charming and hopelessly romantic. It banished the horrors of Milan, and practically whipped out a picture book of What Italy Should Look Like and flipped through the glossy pages saying 'prego prego prego'. It is the only city thus far, thats central station has been situated in a pretty part of the city. In Venice's case, you step out, and fall head over heels with a literal postcard image. It takes about 30 seconds to progress from infatuation to full blown love affair. Then a tourist steps on your foot, or sneezes in your face, and a man hassles you to buy a fake prada bag ... and, as it always does in these touristy cities, reality prevails for the moment.
We were staying in Australia ... I mean, a campsite (it's ok, not in a tent, I couldn't pitch a tent if my life depended on it, nor do I have any interest in it)which was (as all campsites through Europe are) a drop off point for everyone's favourite brand of traveller, the Contiki/Topdeck breed. Needless to say, our nights were spent lying in our bunkbeds listening to Aussie cunts pick fights with other Aussie cunts. I mean, really, can we not think of another word? Is vagina the best we can do? Surely, if our generation continues travelling, in five years we will cease to be known affectionately as Aussies (we will cease to be known affectionately at all) instead, simply as Cunts. Not because we are them (well, most of the time) but because it is the only word we seem to spout with any sort frequency. That and 'fuck'. And occasionally 'mate'. Long gone are the simple days of g'day and kangaroos, we now have far more sinister things defining us, and they include derogative references to the female anatomy. Makes. Me. So. Proud.
But I digress. The backdrop to this Australia vocal and verbal ablution, was the delightful Venice. We spent our days eating head-sized pizzas (always go to the back streets for the cheaper and more authentic food) sipping lattes at checkered cloth covered tables, from chipped mugs with cows on them and stalking gondola men for the perfect action shot. All you need to do in Venice is walk, the city does the rest for you, purely by existing. And if you can find a tiny cafe, in one of the narrow back streets, untainted by the massive tourism market that seems to drive this city in the summer, then you can get a pretty cheap (and delicious) coffee and watch the world go by. And get leered at by Italian men. Whatever.
Bologna was next, a train trip (and a fine, who knew you had to validate your ticket after buying it) and a rather long cab ride, and we were at our hotel (smugly booked as one of the cheapest accommodations on hosteworld.com) in the Bologna countryside. Bologna was to be our campsite reprieve, we fashioned it as a hotel retreat, so as to make our campsite stints in Venice, Florence and Rome seem more bearable. At first, it seemed, we had fallen for the Horror Movie Set Moonlighting as a Hotel ruse once more ... then fellow patrons trickled in, the lights went on in reception and we exhaled. The novelty of having our own bathroom, and a buffet breakfast every morning was enough to buoy our campsite and train-fine dampened spirits, as was the fact that Bologna is just lovely. It is the sweetest little university town (since the 1200s or something insane like that) with endless bars, trattorias, cafes and fresh fruit stalls lining the cobbled, arcaded streets. It is worthwhile making time for this little town, even if only for a couple of days - particularly as a stopover in between the hectic Big Cities (Lonely Planet Cities). You feel less like a tourist and more like a local, and if nothing else, the spaghetti bolognaise sauce is superb.
From Bologna, we caught the bus to Florence, yet another campsite, and yet more Aussies. This time, however, we were mercifully more thoroughly dispersed throughout throngs of bronzed European backpackers and skimpily clad Poms who go nuts at the sight of the sun. Again, I will wax lyrical on yet another Italian city. Florence is; artistic, scenic, grand in its old age and rich with art history. It is also bloated with tourists and so, as in Rome, you are hard pressed to find a bona fide Florence-ian, and more likely to engage in any sort of interaction with an American than you are an Italian. That aside, it is wonderful. And again, the perfect city to find a tucked-away cafe, and get out of the throngs of sweating tourists. That being said, a whole lot of sweaty shoulders were rubbed in the queue waiting for David, which is located in an art museum that literally makes no pretences as to why it exists - for David. About 4 paintings hang on the wall in the first room, to the left is a bizarre room of busts and sculptures and then, standing there, framed by an arch and godly light filtering through, is the man himself.
And he is breathtaking.
Nearly as breath taking as the freak rainstorm that hit Florence, the worst in 20 years, as we were skipping through the city. And yes, we were skipping, fuelled along by caffeine, in our calico frocks, perhaps yelling bonjourno to cafe owners who, in their spare time, stand on the steps of their store fronts and talk to passersby. At first, it was a rumble of thunder, then the clouds closed in and boom. Lightening, thunder, gale force winds (of course, Dee and I were perambulating along the bridge at that point, and yes we stopped to take a photo. Ever wonder what kind of people get photos of natural disasters? Why they are standing in the midst of a freak storm photographing flying houses? That's Dee and I. Anything for a good photo.)Aaaanyway, we ran for cover (stopping to photograph and entire row of scooters that had toppled in a domino-esque fashion) only to find most archways occupied by shivering tourists and, by this point we were so wet anyway we saw it only fit to continue. The walk to our campsite involved a narrow set of incredibly steep stairs (the hilltop view comes at a price) which, as we approached them we noted, had turned into a veritable waterfall. When we reached the top, the cafe housing smugly dry Italians (the men are such girls, one actually screamed when he got wet) laughed in our (bedraggled) faces, and so we had no option but to continue to the campsite, rather than endure the humiliation any longer. And so we got back to the campsite, having crossed uprooted trees and waded through flooding gutters, to discover our cabin flooded. The window was open. Dee's bed was soaked through. Satie's bag had puddles in it. Our floor was a wave of mud.
For a couple of nights, it was a not so beautiful life.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Finding My Spain
It was in Valencia that we were reunited with our German bruder, Christian, and finally ate paella. The European Crew (minus Tommy) was reformed and the cuisine trifecta was complete, Sangria, Tapas and Paella. Hunting down the perfect dish, however, was not without its difficulties. In fact, if you ever need someone to quickly and effectively weed out the worst service and the worst food a city has to offer, please call Leni, Christian, Satie, Dee and myself. We did it in Berlin with the Cheese Platter from Hell and we did it again in Valencia. Desperation for water and air conditioning will drive sane, rational people into any establishment.
Although Valencia's beaches are offset by a stunning industrial backdrop, and the water is an unnerving brown, we spent most of our time in Valencia on the beach, straying into the city only at night (to hunt down the shit food/service double whammy we are so adept at) and on the second last day. Smaller, cleaner and quainter than Barcelona, Valencia seems less preoccupied with getting a stylish name for itself and much happier to sip caipirinhas in sundrenched courtyards. And if that's what you gotta do, then that's what you gotta do.
On Dee and my 3 month anniversary, the Trio bade farewell to Christian and Leni, and hopped on yet another 4 hour bus to Madrid. Not before the world proved yet again how tiny it is, and I ran into a Kiwi friend I met in America six years ago on a school 'Young Leader's Conference', on Valencia station. Any moment now, my brother's contiki tour will appear at one of our budget accommodations, I am waiting for it.
We arrived in Madrid hot and tired and desperately excited to see the nation's capital. This excitement would soon morph into a bitterness borne of theft and inappropriate bodily excretions. Our hostel was bangsmack in the middle of the city, on a prostitute lined street, a stone's throw away from the gay party district and right next to McDonalds. Ideally situated. We checked in with Mr Personality 2007 who sported a dye job from hell and rivalled only our cab driver in the arsehole stakes. Granted it was Satie's penchant for writing her Rs as Zs that got us lost in the first place, but we're still paying you mister, no need to scowl so hard your face folds in on itself.
Madrid is infections, there is no denying that. In parts, it is pretty, though nowhere near as effortlessly as other major cities, but there exists an undercurrent of energy you can't quite put your finger on, nor a name to. If you ever find yourself in Madrid, hungry and impoverished (the universal state of budget travellers) go straight to El Tigre, a bar that serves free tapas with every drink. And if you stay long enough and they start to close around you (around 2am) then you don't even have to buy a drink for the platters of chorizzo and cheese baguettes to arrive. Just, whatever do you, don't look at the floor.
Things began to unravel on our 3rd day, and it is here I depart from my narrative and read straight from my journal (which was penned in a tipsy state and thus I may have to notate at times ..)
I have to record this evening whilst it is still fresh in my (admittedly mojito addled) memory. Allow me to hark back to when man defecated in street. Actually, no must hark further back to the two hours Dee and I spent prostitute watching, as depressing as it was fascinating. Actually, no must hark back to when women raised skirt and urinted into grate, on public, much populated street. Defecation occurred en route to meeting Jeff and Mario. Man was ejected from tapas bar with great force – camel suit
pants then unzipped with feverish sense of panic and alacrity. Squatted, defecated. Dee and I in shock. Turned to see if anyone else saw it, woman passing by belched in my face. Continued to plaza to meet Jeff and Mario, but plaza full of agressive lesbians who kept trying to take chair reserved for Jeff. 80 year old woman in sunglasses took to busking area with interpretative dance from hell with small boom box and wizened husband as props. Fight broke out between two men moments later, scuffling sounds sounding over disco music. Engaged in some bizarre limb locking wrestle, rolling in gutter. Distracted momentarily, when fat man in white suit liberated phone from my possession and strolled away.
NB: Dee and I ran off like a shot to try and catch Fatso (who vapourised, probably on a waiting scooter) and so Mario got up to join the chase, still holding his sangria, then the waitress started chasing Mario yelling about him not paying. Mario threw euros at the table and continued running, sangria still in hand.
And so it was with a somewhat bitter taste in our mouths that we departed Prostitute Lane and Hell's Hostel for Granada. Madrid's parting kiss, or slap in the face, came in the form of abuse from a homeless man as we alighted our cab at Madrid's autobus station. Or perhaps it came in the form of the ticket seller who was too busy flirting with her disturbingly baby faced colleague to sell us our tickets to Granada. She did, however, pause long enough in batting her eyelashes, to inform us the next 3 hourly busses were full.
Hello bus station caffeteria, our old friend.
The bus ride to Granada was hellish, not least because it was four hours long and was each hour passed, the temperature rose to a balmy 41 degrees, peaking, of course, when the bus driver decided to take a break in the middle of nowhere. What made it even more painful was two girls in front of Dee who passed the time engaging in bizarre faux lesbian antics for, I can only assume, because no one else enjoyed it, the viewing pleasure of the lone male of the trio.
Granada is my Spain. I finally found it. Prior to actually arriving in Spain, if you had said to me, paint a picture of Spain with words, as you see it, I would have described Granada. After the frenetic pace (and public ablution penchant) of Madrid, Granada was the perfect antidote. White stucco houses, narrow alley ways under an umbrella of blue sky, stone water bubblers and geranium filled balconies. We spent our first day in the tea house area, which is a narrow and steep little street where tapas houses jostle with Middle Eastern restaurants and tiny but deep stalls selling the fruits of the combined Spain and Islamic influences that makes Granada so unique.
And then, of course, there is the Alhambra, which we chose to visit on a 45 degree day. Actually, rephrase, which we chose to walk to on a 45 degree day.
The Alhambra is, scorching heat, profuse sweating and lack of a water bottle over the size of 80ml aside, exquisite. The palace is a beautiful homage to Islamic art and architecture, but with a Spanish flavour. We went to the neighbouring fortress and looked down over a sunburnt Granada, cradled by the huge, dry mountains. The gardens were beautiful, at once green, luscious, neat and charming and, rather thrillingly, I have found my new house. The Summer House. It is my dream house, realised. Stark white walls, square courtyards with orange trees and ceramic ponds, so much space and sunlight, a literal Mediterranean paradise
And then it was a bus again, to Malaga, where we caught another bus to the airport, where we caught a plane to Milan and out of Spain.
For now, adios Espana, bonjourno Italy.
Although Valencia's beaches are offset by a stunning industrial backdrop, and the water is an unnerving brown, we spent most of our time in Valencia on the beach, straying into the city only at night (to hunt down the shit food/service double whammy we are so adept at) and on the second last day. Smaller, cleaner and quainter than Barcelona, Valencia seems less preoccupied with getting a stylish name for itself and much happier to sip caipirinhas in sundrenched courtyards. And if that's what you gotta do, then that's what you gotta do.
On Dee and my 3 month anniversary, the Trio bade farewell to Christian and Leni, and hopped on yet another 4 hour bus to Madrid. Not before the world proved yet again how tiny it is, and I ran into a Kiwi friend I met in America six years ago on a school 'Young Leader's Conference', on Valencia station. Any moment now, my brother's contiki tour will appear at one of our budget accommodations, I am waiting for it.
We arrived in Madrid hot and tired and desperately excited to see the nation's capital. This excitement would soon morph into a bitterness borne of theft and inappropriate bodily excretions. Our hostel was bangsmack in the middle of the city, on a prostitute lined street, a stone's throw away from the gay party district and right next to McDonalds. Ideally situated. We checked in with Mr Personality 2007 who sported a dye job from hell and rivalled only our cab driver in the arsehole stakes. Granted it was Satie's penchant for writing her Rs as Zs that got us lost in the first place, but we're still paying you mister, no need to scowl so hard your face folds in on itself.
Madrid is infections, there is no denying that. In parts, it is pretty, though nowhere near as effortlessly as other major cities, but there exists an undercurrent of energy you can't quite put your finger on, nor a name to. If you ever find yourself in Madrid, hungry and impoverished (the universal state of budget travellers) go straight to El Tigre, a bar that serves free tapas with every drink. And if you stay long enough and they start to close around you (around 2am) then you don't even have to buy a drink for the platters of chorizzo and cheese baguettes to arrive. Just, whatever do you, don't look at the floor.
Things began to unravel on our 3rd day, and it is here I depart from my narrative and read straight from my journal (which was penned in a tipsy state and thus I may have to notate at times ..)
I have to record this evening whilst it is still fresh in my (admittedly mojito addled) memory. Allow me to hark back to when man defecated in street. Actually, no must hark further back to the two hours Dee and I spent prostitute watching, as depressing as it was fascinating. Actually, no must hark back to when women raised skirt and urinted into grate, on public, much populated street. Defecation occurred en route to meeting Jeff and Mario. Man was ejected from tapas bar with great force – camel suit
pants then unzipped with feverish sense of panic and alacrity. Squatted, defecated. Dee and I in shock. Turned to see if anyone else saw it, woman passing by belched in my face. Continued to plaza to meet Jeff and Mario, but plaza full of agressive lesbians who kept trying to take chair reserved for Jeff. 80 year old woman in sunglasses took to busking area with interpretative dance from hell with small boom box and wizened husband as props. Fight broke out between two men moments later, scuffling sounds sounding over disco music. Engaged in some bizarre limb locking wrestle, rolling in gutter. Distracted momentarily, when fat man in white suit liberated phone from my possession and strolled away.
NB: Dee and I ran off like a shot to try and catch Fatso (who vapourised, probably on a waiting scooter) and so Mario got up to join the chase, still holding his sangria, then the waitress started chasing Mario yelling about him not paying. Mario threw euros at the table and continued running, sangria still in hand.
And so it was with a somewhat bitter taste in our mouths that we departed Prostitute Lane and Hell's Hostel for Granada. Madrid's parting kiss, or slap in the face, came in the form of abuse from a homeless man as we alighted our cab at Madrid's autobus station. Or perhaps it came in the form of the ticket seller who was too busy flirting with her disturbingly baby faced colleague to sell us our tickets to Granada. She did, however, pause long enough in batting her eyelashes, to inform us the next 3 hourly busses were full.
Hello bus station caffeteria, our old friend.
The bus ride to Granada was hellish, not least because it was four hours long and was each hour passed, the temperature rose to a balmy 41 degrees, peaking, of course, when the bus driver decided to take a break in the middle of nowhere. What made it even more painful was two girls in front of Dee who passed the time engaging in bizarre faux lesbian antics for, I can only assume, because no one else enjoyed it, the viewing pleasure of the lone male of the trio.
Granada is my Spain. I finally found it. Prior to actually arriving in Spain, if you had said to me, paint a picture of Spain with words, as you see it, I would have described Granada. After the frenetic pace (and public ablution penchant) of Madrid, Granada was the perfect antidote. White stucco houses, narrow alley ways under an umbrella of blue sky, stone water bubblers and geranium filled balconies. We spent our first day in the tea house area, which is a narrow and steep little street where tapas houses jostle with Middle Eastern restaurants and tiny but deep stalls selling the fruits of the combined Spain and Islamic influences that makes Granada so unique.
And then, of course, there is the Alhambra, which we chose to visit on a 45 degree day. Actually, rephrase, which we chose to walk to on a 45 degree day.
The Alhambra is, scorching heat, profuse sweating and lack of a water bottle over the size of 80ml aside, exquisite. The palace is a beautiful homage to Islamic art and architecture, but with a Spanish flavour. We went to the neighbouring fortress and looked down over a sunburnt Granada, cradled by the huge, dry mountains. The gardens were beautiful, at once green, luscious, neat and charming and, rather thrillingly, I have found my new house. The Summer House. It is my dream house, realised. Stark white walls, square courtyards with orange trees and ceramic ponds, so much space and sunlight, a literal Mediterranean paradise
And then it was a bus again, to Malaga, where we caught another bus to the airport, where we caught a plane to Milan and out of Spain.
For now, adios Espana, bonjourno Italy.
First Pair of Knockers Out ... Spotted!
On the plane from Paris to Barcelona, I closed my eyes and imagined Spain. The sun, sangria, sundresses, brown skin and bare feet. Sweating profusely in my I-Have-To-Wear-5kg-Of-Clothing-So-My-Luggage-Meets-Restrictions outfit, I envisioned the beach and me on it, and endless mojitos. I had to. There was no air conditioning and I was desperate.
Barcelona was our first Spanish city and, according to the Lonely Planet, the most un-Spanish of them all. A heady fusion of old and new, with a lean towards the new and chic, Barcelona bustles as much as it siestas, it parties as much as it sunbathes, sprawled in the scorching summer sun. Our neighbourhood, Gracia, was a charming riot of boutiques, lolly stores, Middle Eastern restaurants and tapas bars, all jammed together on narrow tree lined streets overlooked by flower pot filled balconies. It was small enough for us to become local, and perfectly positioned for a relatively short stroll into the city.
It really is impossible to spend any time in Spain and not become completely and utterly relaxed about life. Sangria becomes your breakfast juice, but that's ok because you don't wake up before midday anyway (the magic hour. Drinking before midday is just sad.) And you don't wake up before midday because you don't go to sleep until late, because around about 4pm you have a siesta anyway. What else are you supposed to do? Everything closes down, you have nowhere to go but back to sleep, whether it be in bed, on a sunlounger on your balcony (until you are informed it is inappropriate in Spain to sunbathe on balconies) or on the beach. And if you are on the beach, it is so bloody hot and the walk there has resulted in being so parched, it makes absolute sense to have a refreshing glass of sangria, particularly when supermarkets sell it in handily packaged juice-like plastic bottles.
The beaches, whilst definitely the best anecdote to the blistering Summer sun, are city beaches so they are certainly not the most beautiful going around, especially to beach snob Australians. And they are not for the non-nudist-embracing either, as most women tend to eschew the other half of their bathing suits. You can easily separate the Spanish men from the prudish Anglos, if not by their skin tone, then by the simple fact that the Anglos are the ones who actually blink an eyelash ... and/or peel off their clothes to reveal pallid limbs and skip to the water yelling gleefully the now immortal line, 'first pair of knockers out ... spotted!'
Much to Leni's (who we were reunited with after her Paris jaunt ended a few days after ours') disappointment, we didn't eat any Spanish cuisine (save for tapas designed for the western palate in the form of mini hamburgers) but instead frequented a Middle Eastern restaurant, Equinox, where our loyalty won us star treatment and special post dinner treats, invita la casa (I really hope that means 'on the house'). We did sink to an all time culinary low, however, with the decision to patronise an all you can eat for 9.95 salad bar. The four of us transformed into frenzied, plate piling animals who, despite the buffet being completely and uninspiringly limp, pressed on in a ghastly and mortifying display. At some point, the haze of beast-like desperation suddenly cleared, revealing us, with embarrassing clarity, for what we had become. The saddest of the dining world ... all you can eat, Homer Simpson style, scrooges.
To get the full idea of what Barcelona is really about, you simply have to ramble. Whether that be purely along Las Ramblas, past the brilliant shopping, street performers and artists, sidewalk cafes and paella restaurants, all the way down to the port with its imposing Christoper Columbus statue – or through the winding backstreets where can find the best (and often the cheapest) tapas bars, gelato stores and the lesser known boutiques where the annoyingly attractive Spanish girls find their annoyingly chic outfits. Due to the unveiling of a new Frugality plan, unveiled mid-Barcelona, that involved shunning public transport, the four of us did a lot of walking. Including the daily 12km round trip walk to the beach, done in suffocating heat, most often with towels draped over our burning forms, as our spindly legs (made spindly by excessive walking) zigzagged this way and that. If frugality wasn't enough to drive the Spindle Leg Walking Plan, the appearance of the aforementioned annoyingly attractive Spanish girls and their bambi legs was. Whoever said Spanish culture appreciates 'real women' obviously overlooked the period in which the country jumped on the spindle bandwagon and bred out things like thighs and hips. We were ten times more 'real' than any Spanish women I saw and I blame the tapas entirely.
As tradition has come to dictate, our final night in Barcelona was a large one and, due to the benefits of Equinox loyalties, a cheap one at that. Like Pied Pipers, we skipped down the main drag of Gracia, gathering Equinox staff, Antoine the crazy tapas man and anyone else who wanted to join five sunburnt and delirious Australians (the 5th being a new European Jaunting co-star, the perenially glamorous Jeff-Originally-From-Sydney-Now-Works-In-London) in Sangria and Spanglish.I awoke the next morning, two hours after we went to bed, unable to walk due to a rolled foot, which rolled in a spectacularly uncoordinated manouevre whilst gadding about gathering people. Hungover and hobbling (me), we made it to Barcelona station only to miss our train. Not because we were late (miraculously we were early) but because we were in Spain. No Need To Hurry is the country's motto. Thus it was four sorry girls who boarded a very warm bus for four hours, with only an empty lolly bag between them ... in case of emergencies ...
Barcelona was our first Spanish city and, according to the Lonely Planet, the most un-Spanish of them all. A heady fusion of old and new, with a lean towards the new and chic, Barcelona bustles as much as it siestas, it parties as much as it sunbathes, sprawled in the scorching summer sun. Our neighbourhood, Gracia, was a charming riot of boutiques, lolly stores, Middle Eastern restaurants and tapas bars, all jammed together on narrow tree lined streets overlooked by flower pot filled balconies. It was small enough for us to become local, and perfectly positioned for a relatively short stroll into the city.
It really is impossible to spend any time in Spain and not become completely and utterly relaxed about life. Sangria becomes your breakfast juice, but that's ok because you don't wake up before midday anyway (the magic hour. Drinking before midday is just sad.) And you don't wake up before midday because you don't go to sleep until late, because around about 4pm you have a siesta anyway. What else are you supposed to do? Everything closes down, you have nowhere to go but back to sleep, whether it be in bed, on a sunlounger on your balcony (until you are informed it is inappropriate in Spain to sunbathe on balconies) or on the beach. And if you are on the beach, it is so bloody hot and the walk there has resulted in being so parched, it makes absolute sense to have a refreshing glass of sangria, particularly when supermarkets sell it in handily packaged juice-like plastic bottles.
The beaches, whilst definitely the best anecdote to the blistering Summer sun, are city beaches so they are certainly not the most beautiful going around, especially to beach snob Australians. And they are not for the non-nudist-embracing either, as most women tend to eschew the other half of their bathing suits. You can easily separate the Spanish men from the prudish Anglos, if not by their skin tone, then by the simple fact that the Anglos are the ones who actually blink an eyelash ... and/or peel off their clothes to reveal pallid limbs and skip to the water yelling gleefully the now immortal line, 'first pair of knockers out ... spotted!'
Much to Leni's (who we were reunited with after her Paris jaunt ended a few days after ours') disappointment, we didn't eat any Spanish cuisine (save for tapas designed for the western palate in the form of mini hamburgers) but instead frequented a Middle Eastern restaurant, Equinox, where our loyalty won us star treatment and special post dinner treats, invita la casa (I really hope that means 'on the house'). We did sink to an all time culinary low, however, with the decision to patronise an all you can eat for 9.95 salad bar. The four of us transformed into frenzied, plate piling animals who, despite the buffet being completely and uninspiringly limp, pressed on in a ghastly and mortifying display. At some point, the haze of beast-like desperation suddenly cleared, revealing us, with embarrassing clarity, for what we had become. The saddest of the dining world ... all you can eat, Homer Simpson style, scrooges.
To get the full idea of what Barcelona is really about, you simply have to ramble. Whether that be purely along Las Ramblas, past the brilliant shopping, street performers and artists, sidewalk cafes and paella restaurants, all the way down to the port with its imposing Christoper Columbus statue – or through the winding backstreets where can find the best (and often the cheapest) tapas bars, gelato stores and the lesser known boutiques where the annoyingly attractive Spanish girls find their annoyingly chic outfits. Due to the unveiling of a new Frugality plan, unveiled mid-Barcelona, that involved shunning public transport, the four of us did a lot of walking. Including the daily 12km round trip walk to the beach, done in suffocating heat, most often with towels draped over our burning forms, as our spindly legs (made spindly by excessive walking) zigzagged this way and that. If frugality wasn't enough to drive the Spindle Leg Walking Plan, the appearance of the aforementioned annoyingly attractive Spanish girls and their bambi legs was. Whoever said Spanish culture appreciates 'real women' obviously overlooked the period in which the country jumped on the spindle bandwagon and bred out things like thighs and hips. We were ten times more 'real' than any Spanish women I saw and I blame the tapas entirely.
As tradition has come to dictate, our final night in Barcelona was a large one and, due to the benefits of Equinox loyalties, a cheap one at that. Like Pied Pipers, we skipped down the main drag of Gracia, gathering Equinox staff, Antoine the crazy tapas man and anyone else who wanted to join five sunburnt and delirious Australians (the 5th being a new European Jaunting co-star, the perenially glamorous Jeff-Originally-From-Sydney-Now-Works-In-London) in Sangria and Spanglish.I awoke the next morning, two hours after we went to bed, unable to walk due to a rolled foot, which rolled in a spectacularly uncoordinated manouevre whilst gadding about gathering people. Hungover and hobbling (me), we made it to Barcelona station only to miss our train. Not because we were late (miraculously we were early) but because we were in Spain. No Need To Hurry is the country's motto. Thus it was four sorry girls who boarded a very warm bus for four hours, with only an empty lolly bag between them ... in case of emergencies ...
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