Spain 2004 - Spanish leather!

Barcelona

Barcelona street scene Barcelona

I relaxed into Barcelona, but my memory cannot be divided into days because days and nights joined up! From the airport, I went to Hostel Kabul whose reputation is richly deserved. My room-mates were instant coffee! Our room was legendary, there was a Tokyo rocker/biker, a Mexican musician, and Warren - a long haired South African who only ate fruit. Moyo joined us a day later and played in the hostel one night some Manu Chao’s, one of my favourite musicians, whom he knows personally. He gave me a demo CD of his band, Barrio Zumba. The hostel had free dinner if you bought a beer and a light brekkie free too! The beer was the cheapest and most effective in Barcelona. Warren and I did many things, mostly roamed the Gothic quarter and went digging for the craziest stuff in town. On the second day, we roamed around all the major attractions, which had to be done once, like Sagrada Familia. But what really got me was getting lost everywhere and dancing ideas off the people. That evening, I met loads of Brits, Brazilians and Swedes. We had been eating meals at different places all the time. I say we, I mean Warren, some other people, and then some others, changing like waves at a beach. Some great Brummie lads found a British pub in the Barrio where we spent an evening talking to a hardcore ex-soldier and his friend about things. I joined the Brummies for a night of pot on the harbour with the local hobos. I returned to the hostel and walked into to a lovely Norwegian called Annika, and we had a connection that was natural. Poor Phil was stuck at the bottom entrance, drunk and apologetic but ravaging one helluva conversation with anyone that walked in from Plaza Reial, where the hostel is situated. The Ramblas is full of tourists and attractions, it was in the garbage can by day 2.

I think the next day was spent playing yonks of pool and watching people on the square in chilled-out Espana stylee. I have no idea but a championship mode set in and I stayed on the table getting challenged and winning for about 4 hours, with people of all races and sexes, you name it. This hostel rocks, though my key was screwed so I had to lodge a shoe on our door and Warren thought it was against principle or summat which sounded good at the time. An American guy made us a trio of Kerouacian soul-seekers with Warren. We spent some time playing cards with German girls that were insanely hard to please. I had a tortilla to die for. Warren and I roamed the streets digging phonies getting falafels all the way to people emptying their colons in the Barrio. We found a bench-guy who sold us hashish by a con at first until we surrounded him to hand over the promised handful. McDonalds was the change machine. There was a market on the Ramblas where we used to buy fresh fruit in the mornings. That night, Warren and I swayed like the guitar riff in No woman, no cry going starry. We walked the night like the kings of Earth, across the shore of the Mediterranean sea, stoned more than I’ve ever been. ‘Twas a level of stoning that convinced me completely that the line of time is one and the same, and items fuse into a vast continuum. I can safely say it wasn’t drug abuse. An old hosteller who had spent 10 years playing music at a beach in Mexico sold me a ‘rainbow’ wristband as a peace symbol and added many stories of value, but I was to find later that it had more meanings!

On the last day, I was to fly to Madrid in the evening. The morning was broken by our cleaning ladies who poked us lovingly (as usual) with brooms and Moto, Moyo and I walked about Plaza Catalunya to get information and mission to some ghost shop in the suburbs. Moto and I split and spent an excellent lunch in a far-away street. Towards the evening, I had a thali with people (yes, a vegetarian one) good enough to pass at a Gujarati restaurant! I went up and down to the hostel to store things, get things, buy things and say goodbye to many new friends. I left for the airport to board Spanair for Madrid.

Photos from Barcelona

Gothic Quarter

Barcelona streets Roaming the streets

[Photo omitted - Caption: Me and princess at Hostel Kabul]

[Photo omitted - Caption: Me in front of a painted house]

Sagrada Familia towers

Barcelona trompe l'oeil mural Barcelona trompe l’oeil mural

La Rambla

Madrid

The Princess (Birke) met me at the airport, and it lifted my spirit to see her after ages. Madrid was clean, tidy and enjoyable, and the Metro has awesome signs, which I salute with a hoy!

We went out pretty much instantly to one of Birke’s friends, Francesco, and the Princess had some gin and we were joined by another friend who was really great. At the balcony I saw a scene that was just like being in Mombasa. Then Birke and I had some more, and she wasn’t standing good by the time we went to the bars, where I tried a mojito. It was a fantastic night, I kinda dragged the Princess home. Apparently she fell down and grazed her knee but I didn’t notice and we did lost her for a bit!

The second day started early with the washing machine guy. Picture the scene. This man walks into the apartment, sets up his own personal repair corner and expresses clearly his kingship of the washing machine. This guy was the bomb. I dug that heavily, and Birke chuckled! The princess and I spent an awesome day at some cake shop and then the arcade, and walked to the park, had a few beers and went boating on a lake. The cool streets have pictures of things like goats, etc. on the street signs. We got back, had a great local meal and met up with Birke’s interesting bunch of friends at their “local”! This time, it was my turn to die. The concept of saying “stop” when the bartender is pouring a whisky didn’t occur to me. So the rest was history! I believe somewhere between then and the end we had some falafels. There, poor Francesco lost his wallet and the whole thing gave me the kicks, we never knew who took it, although I took a photo a few minutes before it happened! I wish he still makes it to Portugal.

Before my last night, the Princess’ boyfriend John arrived and I spent a fabulous day at the Botanical Gardens. And to top off the whole California reunion, I met up with Ixtaso for the afternoon. We repeated a little of the bits before like the arcade! That evening, we cooked a fresh meal and spent a comfy evening for the lack of firepower.

Last day

Today there was a check-mate between insurance business and transportation. After spending some good hours into the morning talking to John, I was woken up at 7am. by the princess, who so kindly made sure I got out on time. Everything was great until I landed in Barcelona and walked about Plaza Catalunya, asking every cleaner, tourist and CD seller how in God’s name I get to Girona. At the station, a guy made me the wrong ticket to some other airport and so I realised and started going to Girona. A shock visit to the police station was needed - to report a large loss, and I met a great Anglo-French man with the kind of Parisian charm that demands a cultivated way of listening, the kind of guy you would write letters with a calligraphy fountain pen. He reminded me of a teacher at the English public school where I was educated for a couple of years. I can see Gerrard as a youth playing Fives, that most gentlemanly of sports. Gerrard told me he had been pickpocketed for everything having a coffee - passport, credit cards, cash. He had no way to prove his identity, making his Ryanair to Paris impossible. A police officer wrote him a statement for the loss. I didn’t have time to write my own statement. We both rushed to the train to Girona, since he had a flight too. The journey was in my mind, half an hour, but took two and a half. And so I missed my flight. On the way, I learned about Gerrard and we discussed our predicaments, he was bbb..adder as he lost everything!

At Girona town after hours in the country sun, tanning the railroad earth, we taxied to the airport, confused and bleeding with the prospect of getting home that night. Our Ryanair lady told me to get on the next flight and pay up, while Gerrard was told he could not travel and his face went red. After much hoo-ha, it was time for me to go, but I couldn’t leave my new friend stranded with no cash until the embassy opened on Monday in Barcelona. I left the elegiac gentleman to contact a very important French Minister he knew that could pull strings with Ryanair. And so we parted, I force-left Gerrard 100 euros, and he gave me the address of his 18th century French country home, which I yearn to visit. I have no news, I hope the good man made it to Paris and took the situation with a Michael Palin grit.

As I entered the plane, I asked a real hottie stewardess called Olga if she wanted to see anything while stepping into the cabin, munching on bacon crisps. Her response was ‘No, but do you want to show me something?‘. To which we both winked hard, and I felt better and cushioned my head to sleep, even on stone-hard Ryanair seats! A wave of chuckles erupted on board as the pilot reported the weather in Stansted … rain! Nothing changes then. The flight itself was full of hyperactive allsorts, and the pilot must’ve thought he was playing a video game, swagging the Boeing 737 right, left and nosediving with free abandon in mid-flight. He sang a song to us to explain happenings and everyone cheered. I didn’t know whether I was alive, dead, in heaven, hell, or a baby still in the womb.

I walked out of the baggage reclaim at London Stansted to my dad - a dim arena in its evening pose. I was dazed, spinning, unable to understand what I inflicted on myself for the last four weeks. The solemn truth becomes apparent, that my life has never been so diverse in recent memory. And a lack of shaving leaves me hairy. Thanks to everyone in Spain and the UK that sent advice and tips, and especially Princess for being the best host ever.

From tomorrow, the suits and shirts are on to start my career with ATOS Origin. We have three weeks training in a Cheshire hotel. I’ll start working with the firm in Stockley Park.