Just a Dream?

Well, it is hard to believe, but 40 days, 16 cities and countless trains, planes, buses, taxis, metros, ferries, a bike, and an ATV later, I am back home in the states wondering if it was all a dream. Since my tan didn’t disappear in the shower this morning and the Domino’s pizza for dinner last night tasted like rubbish, I’ll take that (and the fact that I just used rubbish in my vocabulary) as proof enough that sunning in the Greek Isles and experiencing the tastes of genuine Italian fare were not just figments of my imagination after all.

As you all predicted, the trip was truly the experience of a lifetime and every dime, sacrifice and risk to make this trip happen was completely worth it. There are some things in life that you can’t put a price tag on and this is certainly one of them.

Thank you so much for all of your feedback throughout my blogging updates along the way. It has been encouraging and heartening to hear from so many familiar faces from across the world – some that I haven’t seen for over 10 years!

It has also been awesome to receive correspondence from some of you contemplating a similar trip. Rock on people! I couldn’t have done this the way I did without the helpful suggestions and advice of friends that did this before me, and I hope to be an equally helpful resource for those planning their future Euro trip!

As evidenced by the last blog post below (Blog 13, I believe), I am only on city 4 of 16 in my recounts of traveling! Despite the novel-esque nature of my posts already, the truth is, I’ve only touched on the tip of the iceberg. However, as a personal goal, I do plan to catalogue all the subsequent fun and mayhem of the remaining 12 cities in due time … just as soon as I finish the following (listed in order of importance):

1. Get screened for lung cancer resulting from prolonged and frequent exposure to second-hand smoke.
2. Relish in the exultant feeling of taking a proper shower complete with:
- a shower curtain (!)
- a large enough surface area to actually fit me in it
- a shower head that is permanently fixed overhead and does not require that the water be turned off every 30 seconds to lather alternating body parts.
- hot water that lasts forever (or until I’m on the brink of passing out)
- a full deep conditioning hair treatment, 10-minute face scrub, proper shave, loofah bodywash, pumice scrub of feet, and all other fragrant cleansing agents aiding in the final goal of feeling clean and refreshed.
- a freshly clean, plush, dry towel to top it off.
3. Sleep in the peace and quiet of my own room in a comfortable queen-size bed with air conditioning and as many blankets and sheets as my heart desires.
4. Order a Grande iced coffee from Starbucks. Drink. Smile. Repeat.
5. Partake in a ceremonial burning of the backpack that served as a loyal companion for these past 40 days.
6. Find a place to get a pedicure that can remove the seemingly permanent black veneer on the heels of my feet …
7. Google and Wikipedia all the sights I took pictures of that I had no utter clue of their significance or cultural importance (proceed to pretend that I knew these important factoids all along).
8. Rent the movie “Taken” – per the advice of all of you, I did not watch this before I left, but seeing as though I made it back alive, I am now as curious as ever to finally see what all of your fuss was about.
9. Find an apartment before August 1st.
10. Find a job before I officially go broke.

The Day I Almost Died

Ok, I am exaggerating the title. But it got you to read, right?

So it is 5:45 a.m., Saturday morning and I have a train to catch to Madrid at 7 a.m. The night prior, I learned that the buses to the central station in Alicante don’t start running until 7 a.m. Without a bus as transportation, I had two options. I could take a cab or I could walk to the station, which would take approximately twenty minutes on foot. Twenty minutes isn’t so bad, I thought to myself. And my backpack isn’t that heavy. Why should I pay for a cab when I could get there for free? So, I decided that if I left by 5:45 and walked to the station, I would be there with plenty of time to spare.

As I hazily packed up my belongings, I could hear echoes of revelers in the alleyways beyond my window. Apparently all-night outings in Spain weren’t localized to just Barcelona.

They say that humans, like animals tend to have intuition about things, but the difference is that humans rationalize excuses to ignore the warning signs of impending danger, while animals don’t think, they just react.

As I was packing, I had a bad feeling about the walk to the bus station. It was still dark out and I had a series of many small alleyways to traverse before getting to the main road that would lead me to the train station. The echoes of voices outside showed no signs of female voices, only men. I knew it was a bad idea to go walking in the streets alone in the dark this early in the morning. Little blonde girl with a huge backpack, walking on unfamiliar streets … Yeah, I think the appropriate term for this would be: sitting duck.

Despite my reservations, I told myself to get over it and go. The reception desk closed at midnight, so there was no way to figure out how to get a cab anyway. I wasn’t going to miss my train because of some stupid bad feeling.

So, I ventured into the alley outside the hostel and was on my way. I had left the key in the room, so there was no turning back now, even if I wanted to. I walked briskly with a pen in my hand … the best weapon I could think of that early in the morning.

About a block away from my hostel, I saw them as I crossed an alley intersection. They were about 40 feet to the right. Four of them. Four loud Spanish men carousing obnoxiously in the street. Then they saw me. Before I knew it, they were walking my direction, calling at me, taunting and yelling.

Never in my life have I ever experienced a fear like this. For all the girls, do you recall the scene where Bella is surrounded by the guys up to no good in a deserted alleyway, only to be saved by the dreamy vampire, Edward? This is seriously déjà vu of that. Except there was no Edward to save the day.

A thousand things ran through my mind at a mile a minute. All culminating in one reaction that I can now vouch … actually does happen. In this case of fight or flight, I ran so fucking fast, I know for a fact that whatever my best 40-yard dash time was in college, was no longer my best. Can you imagine? Me, with a twenty pound backpack on my back sprinting like a bat out of hell with a pen in my hand as protection to fight off the enemies (a pen Kylie, really?). If it wasn’t so downright terrifying, it would be quite a hilarious thing to see, I’m sure. It was like a scene out of some bad horror movie. I darted into another alley, hid in a doorway and stood silently, out of breath, trying to suppress my breathing while I waited for them to pass the intersection and prayed prayers I have never prayed before.

They did pass and I amended my course, so as to avoid crossing their path again. Unfortunately, I had no options other than to keep walking because all of the main roads required that you work your way through these zigzagging alleys to get them.

Adrenaline still pumping, I passed another group of Spanish men, again in a parallel alley, this time three of them. “Oh senorita, ooooohhh!”

Here we go again.

I didn’t even give myself time to look if they were coming my way. I sprinted again and begged for this nightmare to end.

A block up, I was heartened mildly to see a man with a hose, washing the street in front of his shop. If I needed someone, he would be my witness and my decoy to throw off the potential murderers (yes, I’ve seen far too many horror movies).

By the time I made it to the main road, I still had a ten-minute walk to the train station. Even though the sun was beginning to rise and there were people here and there on the streets returning from the clubs, it still did nothing to quell my fear of getting swiped by a mob of Spanish men.

While walking, I happened upon a group of three British ‘boys’. Two of them couldn’t have been older than 18 and one looked measurably older, but harmless nonetheless. They followed after me, asking me if I spoke English and other frivolous questions you would expect English boys to ask an American girl whom they assume is also in the under-21 age category.

I obliged to partake in conversation with them while we walked. Hey, who would mess with a fortress of three boys surrounding me? I was not about to shoe off the innocent conversation of a few teenagers with the alternative being another ten-minute walk of fear. My saviors of the day, they walked me all the way to the bus station before grabbing a cab to where they were staying, ten minutes outside of town.

Matthew, I again thank you and your friends – my Edward in disguise!

Yes, Mom and Dad, I learned my lesson. Two days ago, after learning that the Metro was not open early enough to get me to my 6:50 a.m. flight from the Paris airport, I was faced with the option of waiting at a remote bus stop at 3:45 in the morning to take a 2 or 3 Euro “night” bus, or with the much less financially attractive option of taking a 60 Euro cab to the airport, twenty minutes away. You will be happy to know that I bit the bullet and took the cab.

It is painful to think that my cab to the airport cost more than the flight itself …As such, I am now in Greece and refusing to buy food for the next five days to recoup the losses of that damn cab to the airport … Just kidding.

Alicante the Whitest Beach? The Verdict

On the heels of too many consecutive all night forays in Barcelona and Ibiza to count, I was long overdue for a few days rest. A self-proclaimed beach-enthusiast, the beauty of taking this Euro Trip solo has been the freedom to tailor my travels according to the kind of activities, weather and surroundings I enjoy most. Let’s see … beach, check … warm sunshine, check … ocean, check …

From the research I did on the Internet prior to my trip, Alicante, located on the “Costa Blanca” (translated, “White Coast”) of southern Spain, is supposed to be home to some of the whitest beaches in all of the world. Since you can’t believe anything you read on the Internet these days, I felt it was my civic duty to beach-combing fanatics across the globe to conduct a full on-site review of this “alleged” coast flanked by visions of white. Hey, everyone has to take one for the team every now and then.

Traveling to Alicante also marked the first time in the trip in which I was truly “on my own”. On Thursday morning, nearly a week into my 40-day journey, I successfully took the five-hour RENFE train from Barcelona to Alicante without a hitch; however, I ran into a little bit of trouble getting from the bus station to my hostel. After traversing a few wrong buses, I finally managed to find it thanks to the help of several sympathetic locals who not only told me where to go, but physically walked, yes walked, me there too.

One man actually got off the bus we were on (the wrong one for me), walked me to the “right” bus stop and then made sure the bus driver would tell me when we had reached the stop I needed to get off at. And that was that. I got on the correct bus and he carried on his merry way, presumably to go get back on the next bus coming on the line that he was on previously with me.

“Well that was really nice,” I thought to myself after showering him with about 25 gracias-es and a final, “Adios!.”

Once I was dumped at the right bus stop (the beach within sight, only 30 paces away!), I was then faced with a maze of narrow alleyways criss-crossing and dead-ending at every turn. Not yet having a map, all I had was an address and the extremely detailed set of directions provided on the hostel’s website. “We are two blocks from the Plaza Puerto Del Mar bus stop.” This proved to be about as helpful as saying, “We are somewhere in the town of Alicante.”

Graced by the good will of an old man, who I swore might keel over and die any second, I made it to La Milagrosa Hostel, only after he insisted upon walking me the entire three blocks to the address. Even after seeing the sign for it, he still walked me all the way to the doorstep. All I could think was, “Please dear God don’t let this man have a heart attack while walking me here. I could never live with myself if this man dies because of my hopeless lack of directional intelligence.”

Having heard a share of hostel horror stories before my trip and having experienced a pretty downright terrible one (my first hostel ever) the night before in Barcelona (No AC, room the size a closet, four beds, three stinky dudes and me – hugging my purse for dear life), I checked into my hostel in Alicante fully expecting the worst.

Instead, I lucked out with a place that was, as Borat would call it, “Very niiiiice!” I had a SINGLE room for two nights at only 20 Euro a night. The shared shower, was, get this, a rain shower (the shower head that “rains” straight down, as opposed to your typical angled shower heads) – only my number one request for the bathroom in the house that I will eventually have built one day in the far, far distant future. Boys, are you paying attention? It’s all about the little things. A day by the beach and a rain shower and you’ve got yourself a happy lady.

Since I have now been traveling for more than 30 days (sorry for the lag!), I have realized that single rooms in hostels are, first of all, few and far between, and if you do find one, you are going to pay an arm and a leg for it. From some of the travelers I’ve talked to, it sounds like these types of deals (cheap, good quality single rooms) are common in the lesser talked about cities of Europe such as Alicante or perhaps, Bourge, France for example, but are practically nonexistent in the main tourist city centers we all inevitably flock to on our Euro trip excursions.

It’s the big cities, such as Barcelona or Rome that you get the 10-bedroom, mixed dorm, bottom-of-the-line, questionable facilities that pack backpackers in like sardines and all for a pricey (in my opinion) average of 30 Euros a night. Why? Because they can. These hostels can get away with charging higher prices and offering less amenities than places in more remote areas because, bottom line, there will never be a shortage of people looking for beds in Rome.

Don’t get me wrong, communal living is great when traveling because it’s a great way to meet people, but every now and then everyone could use a night to themselves.

So, a little dispensable advice from yours truly, the novice nomad: If you get a chance to take a two-day jaunt to a smaller town along the way that piques your interest – do it! It may be a good relief from the lack of privacy and nasty showers that don’t exactly leave you with the squeaky clean feeling you’re used to getting at home. I was pleasantly surprised and decidedly, spoiled during my short stay in Alicante. What La Milagrosa Hostel lacked in adequate directions to the hostel, they made up for in pleasant accommodations. I’ll take that opposed to the latter any day!

So, what of the beaches? Conveniently following my long morning of travel, I walked across the street to the main and most visited beach in Alicante, Playa del Postiguet, literally a two-minute walk from where I was staying. I have to be honest here. I expected more.

The beach was nice, the water was clear and the sand was indeed white, but not the fine powder white I was expecting. It didn’t take my breath away the way some places have on my trip thus far, but it certainly was beautiful nonetheless and more importantly, it served the purposes of allowing me to decompress and spend a little time relaxing and writing. If given the choice over to take the extra train rides to Alicante between my visits to Barcelona and Madrid, I wouldn’t have done anything differently.

Also overlooking this beach was the Castillo de Santa Barbara (picture below), which I hiked the next morning. A great hour and a half hike round trip, it felt good to get some exercise and take in the impressive view from above. However; unfortunately, in the journey up, there was a lot of restoration and construction going on near the top, which I didn’t necessarily have a problem with. What I did have a problem with was the offensive cat calls from all of the construction workers as I tried to maneuver my way through their work sites. There’s a similarity for the books – in Spain and America, construction workers are equally slimy, patronizing and downright gross. I guess some things are universal everywhere you go.


After the hike, I decided to venture to the other, less crowded beach in Alicante, Playa del San Juan. Now an expert on the buses in Alicante, I made it there with no trouble and scoped out a nice spot to sunbathe for the proceeding hours. Without even thinking twice, I followed suit (haha, no pun intended) with the other ladies on the beach and tossed my top aside. Ironically, in those three hours of topless solitude on a remote beach off the coast of Spain, I have never felt less self-conscious about my body or about the person I have grown into over the past 26 years. Not to get deep or anything, but it is fair to say I had a bit of a moment on that sultry Friday afternoon in Alicante. Not one I will soon forget.

Would You Like the Good News or the Bad News First?

Following the near miss, we were escorted to a small, five-seater van with the back seats filled by an Australian trio of middle-aged women who had apparently encouraged our bus driver to leave the two incompetent stragglers who couldn’t bother to show up on time (aka: Nick and me).

Guess I overlooked the part of the overview that detailed how large our tour group would actually be. Wasn’t expecting Charter Bus’s dwarfed third cousin, Van, Tiny Mini-Van.

Needless to say, I preferred a more personalized experience anyway, and after a brief introduction and explanation of the reasons behind our tardiness, we were back in the good graces of the Aussies and on our way.

Of course, the first thing out of my mouth was an animated proclamation about how excited I was to tour Freixenet. I had, in fact, booked this tour specifically based on my familiarity of the sparkling wine, as many more bottles than I’d like to admit have been consumed back at home … yes, sometimes alone … and maybe possibly accompanied by some ridiculously cheesy teen flick (High School Musical comes to mind) … Ok, TMI … The point being, I have a bit of a close kinship with Freixenet and I was pumped to see how and where it comes from.

Our tour guide/driver cleared his throat and followed with an uncomfortable, “Weeeell … would you like the good news or the bad news first …?”

Obviously aware that something was up, I refrained from speaking out loud and instead displaced verbal communiqué with an internal sequence of thoughts. “Are you serious man? If we aren’t going to Freixenet, you better turn this little pee wee special bus right back around and give me a refund ASAP. False advertising is what you are. This is crap. I may be a foreigner here in Spain, but I know a rip off when I see it, and you are not going to get away with it …”

What I really said: “I guess I’ll take the bad news first.”

Driver: “Sooo, we are not actually going to Freixenet today.”

I knew it! Oh you are going down mister.

“BUT!!” he exclaimed. “The good news is that we are going to a cava winery that is actually FAR superior to Freixenet!”

He went on to explain how Freixenet had changed its tour and no longer took participants into the impressive underground cellars and how Cordoniu (the place we would be touring) offered far better cava, a far better tour and a much more beautiful property.

Whatever.

Disappointed, I refrained from demanding a refund and escort back to my rather unappealing hostel back in Barcelona and instead went along for the ride. Mr. English Liar Tour Man was not going to ruin my day.

I will say that the tour was great. We first drove up to Montserrat, which is a parkland area made up of high hills and a knockout view to boot. According to our tour guide, this very area served as the inspiration for much of Goudy’s work. Check out the pics! These are two of his buildings we passed on Passeia de Gracia, as well as a photo of the view from Montserrat. Definitely see the similarity (for once, do not insert sarcasm here).














There is also a church atop this area nestled into the mountainside, which is home to the oldest boys choir in the world. We were lucky enough to sit in on their 1 o’clock serenade inside the church, which can also be heard echoed throughout the entire surrounding mountainside.



I liked the setup of this tour because it allowed for us to explore the area on our own for a few hours without the claustrophobia of staying with the group. My kinda tour. Nick and I bought a pair of bocadillos for lunch and took them with us on the “difficult” one-hour hike around the area. They weren’t lying. It was a calf-burner! But nice to get some fitness in, nonetheless. After lunch with a ridiculous view and a much easier descent than the climb up, we checked out the church (gorgeous) and met up with our “group” for transport to the second half of the tour.



Cordoniu did not disappoint. I have been on my fair share of winery tours back home, and this far exceeded any I have been on in California to-date. Nick, the brains of the group (recently graduated to “doctor” status!), could probably recall the exact numbers of case production, but from what I saw, this place is ENORMOUS!!! While touring the underground caves storing the wine, we had to take a motorized train cart to navigate through the neverending maze. I want to say it was somewhere in the range of over three miles worth of cellaring wine. That’s a LOT of bubbly. Yum.

Ironically, we had been talking about wineries back home while on the way to Cordoniu. Among mentions of my favorites was Artesa in Napa, introduced by Shannon (thank you Shannon!) -- now a family favorite of my dad and mine. Wouldn’t you know, in the ten-minute video expounding on the history of Cordoniu appeared Artesa! They are totally affiliates! It was a little unclear as to the exact connection between the two (another Google search to embark on), but still … really? At some point, I should stop being surprised by how small this world really is, but I can’t help myself. It’s like every time I see the Golden Gate Bridge. It never ceases to amaze.


I won’t spend too much time on Cordoniu, but I do have to bring up one part that was particularly well, hilarious actually. So, here we are on our classy tour in the caves when all of a sudden, one of the train carts drives by with… no lie… a class of about twenty fifth graders. You know, totally normal … just a bunch of ten-year olds taking a field trip to the winery. Huh?

To top it off, when we went into the tasting room to taste our complimentary selections, all of the kids were there too! Drinking! I can only presume it was sparkling grape juice or something similar, but seriously! Can you imagine being in the middle of a winery tour in Sonoma with something like that?

Gotta love Europe. Gotta love it.

I Can Always Spot an American When …

My last day in Barcelona was dedicated to an all-day tour in Catalonia (about an hour outside of Barcelona), which included a hike in the Montserrat parkland area and a tour and tasting at the facilities of Freixenet, my favorite affordable go-to Spanish cava (sparkling wine).

The meeting place for the tour was in front of the Hard Rock Café in Plaza de Catalunya at 8:45 a.m. for a 9 a.m. departure.

After bidding adieu to Sagar earlier in the morning (he was catching a return-flight back to London that afternoon), we also took care of the chores of checking out of the apartment and into a nearby hostel for a place to sleep and store our bags for our last day in Barcelona.

By 8:35 a.m., Nick, who was also accompanying me on the tour, and I arrived to the meeting spot with time to spare.

As a small reward for our punctual arrival, we ducked into a nearby café for coffees (not grande and not iced – see June 19 blog) and breakfast. By 8:45, equipped with caffeine and food, there still wasn’t a sign of anyone for our tour. Putting our problem-solving skills to work, we assessed the situation and as most logical people would do, we approached the line of four charter buses parked one after the other in front of the Hard Rock. After three strikeouts, the driver in the last bus confirmed that indeed, his bus would be going on a tour of Freixenet.

Bueno!

Feeling smug with our minor victory, we hopped on the completely empty bus and settled in. A pastry and an empty cup of coffee later, the time was nearing ten after nine and incidentally, we were still the only people on the bus. Oddly, at this point, I (the girl who has a panic attack if I’m even five minutes late to a dentist appointment) was completely oblivious to even the thought that we might not be on the right bus. Hey, the driver said he was going to Freixenet, an entire hour out of the city! How many other buses could there be going to the same winery, in the same meeting spot? Come on!

Nick, on the other hand, was a little uneasy. “I’m gonna go see if there is anyone over in front of the Hard Rock. This doesn’t feel right.”

“Alrighty,” I said airily. “I’ll stay here.”

A few minutes later, the door to the bus opened and a mad rush of well-dressed Arizona State students began piling onto the bus like hungry cattle.

“Umm, are you guys going to Freixenet?” I asked, now feeling a little unsure.

Your typical jerk-ass frat guy replied to my quandary. “Yeah, WE are, but I think you’re on the wrong bus, sweetie. We passed some dude outside looking for you. Looks like you missed your tour. Sucks for you.”

“Shiiiiit!”

Under normal circumstances, I would have retorted with some kind of snarky reply to put this first-class jerk in his place, but time was of the essence. I jumped off the bus quicker than Carl Lewis himself and ran to find Nick who was pacing in front of the Hard Rock.

I was now in full freak out mode. Not only was I out a hundred bucks if we missed the bus, but so was Nick, and it would be 100% entirely my fault. To make things worse, despite having my folder containing over 50 pages of hotel, tour and travel reservations with me (yeah, I like to plan, layoff!), the confirmation sheet with the phone number for this tour was in my computer case in my backpack back at the hostel.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

Without any phone number, our only real option was to walk around the meeting place (10 minutes past the departure time) and cross our fingers that the tour people find us as opposed to us finding them.

As we scanned the premises and faces of hundreds around us, a man with a killer tan, graying hair and a beautiful British accent approached us. “Excuse me, are you looking for the Montserrat and Cava tour?”

“Oh my gosh! … Yes! … We got on the wrong bus! … We thought you had left!” I shouted in between deep breaths as my heart struggled to return to a normal rhythm. “How did you know we were with the tour?!”

“That’s easy,” he said. “I have in my notes that you are American. I can always spot the Americans. You silly blokes don’t go anywhere without a bloody cup of coffee on your hand.”

“If you only knew,” was all I could think to myself.

“Grande” Coffee in Barcelona

After a solid day at the beach, we occupied the remainder of our day walking up and down Passeig de Gracia, the main strip of shopping for the non-backpacking visitors of Spain. From Gucci to Hermes, this street is the Disney Land of designer names. Don’t worry Versace, I’ll be back one day, and I promise to leave you with more than a storefront window smudged with fingerprints.

By the time we returned to the apartment, the time was nearing 8 p.m. Exhausted, I opted out of dinner and drinks with Nick, Sagar and one of Sagar’s old friends from the school he attended in Barcelona. In the nonstop excitement of the past week, I hadn’t even had a spare second to put a single thought down on paper. It was only Day 5, but I felt like I had a month’s worth of experiences to recount.

With the apartment to myself for a few hours and my computer booted up, all that was missing was a large iced coffee to ignite the brain cells and shake the fatigue setting in from the antics of the preceding days.

At a café cross the street from the apartment, I did my best to order what I was looking for.

“Una café grande con leche y hielo por favor … Quiero frio … no calor … comprende, si?”

What I think I asked: “One large coffee with milk and ice please … I want it cold … Not hot … Do you understand?"

Not knowing the appropriate way to say I wanted it to-go, I said, “Umm, to-go!” and made some kind of embarrassing gesture to help translate the English request.

After gauging that the guy behind the counter could understand my English, I ordered again in English and also asked twice if he understood that I wanted it iced, not hot.

He nodded confidently and I felt pretty good about the whole transaction.

Yeah, that lasted about, oh, 45 seconds.

It turns out that a “grande” coffee at Starbucks and a “grande” coffee in Spain are about as similar as me standing next to Yao Ming.

My barista compadre returned with a smile and a styrofoam cup the size of a shot glass. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling because he was proud for getting my order right, or if it was because he was trying to keep himself from outwardly laughing at this stupid American asking for ice in her coffee.

Indeed, he got the order right, save for the other half liter of drink that I thought I was ordering. The cup had everything I asked for: one part coffee, one part milk and one sole ice cube, already half-melted from the heat of the piping hot coffee.
Disappointed, but moreso amused at the hilarity of my mini-coffee to-go, I paid the 3 Euro tab, nodded in thanks and thoroughly enjoyed the hell out of all two sips of my luke warm grande Spanish iced coffee.

Just Another Morning on the Metro

Tuesday in Barcelona afforded yet another picture-perfect day in the city. With a full day tour in Catalonia scheduled for the following day, we chose to forego the Dali museum (an hour and a half outside of Barcelona by train) and instead spend the day relaxing in the sun at Barceloneta Beach.

As we descended the stairs to the Metro platform to take us in that direction, I could hear Nick and Sagar snickering behind me.

Nick: “Nooo, it couldn’t be.”

Sagar: “Yes it totally is!”

Nick: “Oh my gosh, it is!”

Wanting in on the revelations behind me, I turned and inquired what the fuss was all about, “What’s so funny?”

Trying to stifle his laugh, Sagar nodded his head and said discreetly under his breath, “Look behind my shoulder.”

Still not understanding, I complained, “What? I don’t get it?”

This initiated a synchronized point from Sagar and Nick. And that’s when I saw her. “Noooo way!”

Behind Sagar was a girl with blonde hair sitting against the wall slumped over, eyes barely open and face noticeably ashen. Beside her, a guy, presumably her boyfriend or perhaps a concerned stranger, was crouched down poking her arm to see if she was ok. She had clearly had a long night.


Mind you, it was 12 noon and we were at the Metro stop in front of our apartment, clear across town from the bar we were at the night before.

Before leaving Jamboree at around 4 a.m. earlier in the morning, we all had the entertaining pleasure of talking to a very obviously inebriated local. Between taking pictures with her on our cameras, trying to understand her slurred Spanish and perhaps cheers-ing a shot with her from our rock star bartender, she left enough of an impression for all three of us to remember her eight hours later, in the train station across town, in the same clothes from the night before. Priceless.

Barcelona in a nutshell.