Spain

Here is a Tui ad right here,

"We'll catch the 6am Ferry tomorrow morning."............ Yeah Right!

So at 9am I was sitting on the boat enjoying my double espresso, dropping subtle hints to the Ben and Karima, two English backpackers I had befriend on the train the day before, who where heading to stay at their holiday house in the South of Spain, that I had no accommodation in Spain.

No such luck and the long haired Kiwi was unceremoniously dumped at the bus station to find his own way to Granada where I was yet to have a place to stay. I knew I was in for a hard time as I walked out of the doors of the bus station and the rain was starting to fall.

I had two hours of walking around the narrow medieval streets of Granada in the pouring rain having door after door shut in my face and being haunted by the grinning face of the guy at the information desk who had informed me that the bus station was open all night. I walked into a Pensiòn and what do you know "Una habitaciòn individual para una noche" followed by many hand signals was replied to with a "Si" and then me being dragged up the stairs to my room to dry my sorry Kiwi arse off before any check in procedure was entered into.

After a day checking out the Alhambra, I found this huge fortress over looking the city with great views of the Sierra Nevada range, and then it was back to the bus station and on the night bus to Valencia.

***

I dragged myself off the night bus, had the customary double espresso, and managed to locate my map. Soon I stumbled into the hostel pleased to be given a bed at 7am.

By 7pm that night a rather large group of us had gathered and a night out was planned. Two Kiwi lads, Ricky and Lloyd, three Swedish girls Ulrika, Rayèn and Elisabeth and a few other odds and sods from around the globe, It turns out Lloyd and I used to play rugby against each other at high school.

A few beers in, I’m talking with the lads in the first pub, when the Swedes jump behind us with looks of disgust as three 40 year old Dutch men chase after them. I look up only to see the lads giving them the hard word to which I add my 1 euro cent,
"yeah go away man, they don't want to talk to you!"

After a bit of Kiwi bashing they returned to their table and I didn’t think anything more of it.

"Right next pub" came the call.
I whipped off to the toilet before we headed off; being Europe the toilet consisted of a room 3 by 2m with a toilet and a urinal.

As I stood in front of the urinal I had that sinking feeling, you know the one when you step out and realize a car is coming or when you look out of the plane window and the engine is on fire.

Next minute I am getting shoved from behind, I calmly do up my fly and find all three of my Dutch mates standing behind me. I try to leave but the instigator locks the door and bars my exit. Hmmmmmmmmmm this is going to hurt is the only thought to cross my mind.
"So Kiwi, you want to fight do you?" the guy standing across the door asks in perfect English.
"Yeah! right, three on one that’s fair!" I retort, trying to get him to stand down on morals alone.
"So why won't you let us talk to those girls?" he persists.
"Because you’re an ugly bugger!" I whip back with that custom kiwi smile.

Now I was always told at school that my mouth would get me into trouble one day and I know I should have said anything else but stuff it, today was as good as any ....... beside, I was also full of Dutch courage!

Just as the talking was coming to an end there came the knock on the door, this guy had the nerve to open the door stick his head out to tell the person that we wanted to be in there and we are just having a chat.

"Stuff that Bro kick the flipping door down" I yell only to see the Kiwi lads appear and drag me out of another tight spot. So without skipping a beat it was out of that pub and off to another with my trembling hands hidden in my pockets to have what turned out to be one of the best nights out to date.

Next night was a rather unimpressive night on the water front watching the Americas cup opening ceremony. However when the Spanish come to fireworks, oh my gosh, you have never seen anything like it. It was amazing. To put it in proportion, I would say, every New Years Eve display since I was born, all at once.

***

The guy refused to serve me, so I wrote down in Spanish what ticket I wanted, but I missed the first bus. However I did eventually manage to get myself to Barcelona. Being Sunday nothing was open and I had to find my way to the hostel using the bus maps at every bus stop I came to. Finally I found number 155, the address was a building site. Having walked around for two hours, all I could do was sit down on my back pack, put my Ipod on and laugh (and be stared at by every passer by). Eventually I was pointed to number 135 by a lovely young girl who possible thinks all people from New Zealand are idiots and there you go, another dorm room filled to the brim with 10 unwashed travellers from all over the globe.

Now unluckily for me the Swedes also arrived in Barcelona the night before and it was quickly arranged that we should meet for Spanish drinks which turned out to be jugs of Sangria followed by a night club on the La Rambla and then Dave being attacked at 10am by a screaming Spanish banshee with a mop telling me I had to check out. The plan was to go to Nice, however sporting a decent head cold and an even better hang over, it was off to find a new hostel with some vitamin C tablets.

***

As I sat on my back pack in the bus station eating my loaf of bread and cheese I was approached by an Aussie trio who were also taking the night bus to Nice. When the bus finally turns up it is packed and the driver was running around screaming instructions to us in Spanish. The Aussies hadn't checked in (Yay! not me for once) and the bus driver nearly frog marches them off to the ticket office. For a minute I thought they weren’t coming. I sat down in the back seat with one guy from Tunisia (who smokes pot every time the bus stops) on my right and one of the Australian girls on my left. I'm the kiwi breast in the sandwich. After12 agonizing sleepless hours, we are finally dropped off on the side of the road in Nice at four in the morning. The only option for us is to sit on the water front and watch the sun rise, good times.

After making a fool of myself on the train from Paris to Madrid by opposing the ticket inspector after he wanted to keep my passport overnight we finally made it to Madrid an hour late. It was not until the kind English speaking gentelman sitting beside, told me that he would collect everyone's passports, that I settled back into my seat red faced under the bemused glare from the rest of the carriage.
Once negotiating the Metro with the help of a lovely old lady who persisted with this lost Kiwi by speaking Spainish a million miles an hour and dragging him by the hand to the entrance of the Metro, I found a hostel to stay at.

Much to my horror there was a football game in town and no accommodation to be had anywhere, infact the hostel already had people sleeping in the common room and kitchen. However I think I must have drunk enough Guinness in Dublin to still have the luck of the Irish as a room came free while I was using the internet.

While cooking up my 60 euro cent pasta I met three Canadian girls Laura, Lauren and Kristen and a couple of Australians, Adam and Anna. After a quick round of drinking games it was off to the metro to go Flamingo dancing. As we walked down the stairs the call went out "has some one got the address ........." yes at least half of us replied. Soooo after half an hour walking around Madird trying to find the dancing without an address it was into the first bar we came across for Tapas and 1,30€ Cerveza.

Next morning I bumped into Laura and Lauren so it was off to the El Rastro which is a huge flea market stretching at least 1km and branching off into the side streets also. Dave's key buy was Ipod speakers.

During the Day Laura had been telling me how she had been pick pocketed the previous Friday and what a hassle it was to get her credit cards sent to hostels futher along on her trip. Long story short, we get back to the hostel only to find that Lauren's wallet and passport had also been stolen. When we went to the pub where we were the night before we where told: " you are in Madrid, what do you expect!"

I have just got an email from these girls, it looks like the pick pockets just about got the Canadian hatrick, Kristen discovered a man with his hand in her handbag on the Metro and Adam also lost his wallet that night.

Madrid turned out to be okay, a very modern city. I am now off to Lisbon on the night train, wallet in tack.