Tea anyone?

Wanting desperately to share this with my fellow tube passengers this morning, who coincidently were having none of it, I thought I’d enlighten your tea-drinking lives and give you some fabulous party season chatter to fill those awkward silences.

In the Metro this morning there was a section about the tea bag, and I found it fascinating that the tea bag itself was, like all massive inventions, accidentally created. Although tea itself was said to be used as early as 2737BC, it was only 1904 when importer Thomas Sullivan went cheap, that tea bags were first conceived. Instead of forking out for canisters, he tucked his tea leaves in silk bags. The drinkers dunked the whole bag in their cuppa, and the concept of tea in a bag was created. Now go fourth and spread your knowledge.

A night with the Foo Fighters

I spent a night with the Foo Fighters at the monstrous O2 on Saturday and could not have asked for better company. Serj Tankian (System of a Down singer) was the opening act, dressed in top hat and coat and singing songs from his new album Elect the Dead in his normal neurotic manner.

After a swift stage set up, Dave Grohl and his band took to the stage with a burst of applause from the sold out arena, and with his usual charisma, got the audience beaming with a promise of a long show. ‘None of this one hour and 15 minutes crap’, he told us.

The show had a few things you don’t normally see – a full two hour set, a triangle player solo – oh and a feature with Brian May and Robin Taylor from Queen. Dave was a demon, belting out tracks from their first album to their most recent, feeding the audience with everything they’d come to see as the base reverberated in your throat.

At one point he ran out into the catwalk to the middle of the crowd, and a circular stage was lowered. His band joined him, including his triangle player and a violinist, and there they played - surrounded by fans on all sides - acoustic greats like Everlong.

The show ended with a camera following the team backstage as we awaited the inevitable encore, and we haggled with the members of the band for how many more songs they would do. As four became five with the compulsory send off with Best Of You, it was clear that this band enjoyed the concert as much as the audience did. And it got me thinking that maybe Foo Fighters is as big as Nirvana was, Dave Grohl being an essential component to both.

After attending other concerts where bands push their new stuff, moving away from the older, more popular tunes, I’ve felt a bit disgruntled at not seeing and hearing what I’d paid for. So a night out with the Foo Fighters was more than a pleasure.

Here's a sneak peak:

John Mayer at Royal Albert Hall

So after feeding my competitive spirit I proudly became the owner of 2 John Mayer tickets to a sold-out show last night. Mere minutes before they of course opened up another night due to the overwhelming popularity. Go figure.

And after finding out plenty of my friends wanted to see him - for free - it was me and Borgs in the stands, who was happy to pay the pre-ebay charges. But I was happy to have someone to share the experience with.

So arrive at THE Royal Albert Hall and read the sorry little name opening the event - Newton Faulkner - what kind of a name was that? Turned out to be a pretty great one actually, with his cover of Massive Attack's Teardrop holding firm in my mind, along with other quirky lyrics of his own and an amazing ability to turn an acoustic guitar into a one man band. Sample his abilities here.

Next up was the star of the show and although John Mayer put in a lot, I must say I felt a little put out. Like most musicians advertising their new albums, he sang more of his new stuff, which is a direction I'm not too keen on. But saying that, even now I recall the impact of his 'Bigger than my body' resounding around the magnificent venue, and smile to think I'm was glad I was there.

In the flesh

Evolution of Dance

While I think about how exactly I can catch up over a year in blogging, here's a little entertaining video:

Last bit of Spain

02 June 2006

So last off was a vague description of the bull fight in Madrid, yes they do kill the bulls-they apparently don't in Portugal but not sure how that works, must be a big paddock where all the worn out bulls go... Surely they'd learn if they were used again - wait a minute, I've seen that guy in the frilly pink tights before... yup, not liking this - though I suppose they wouldn't really do much else anyway.

So after a few mixed feelings in the group of the national sport we'd just experienced, we went off and had a good meaty hamburger and a toast to the bulls. Found other things to toast too, and before we knew it we were dancing in some funny underground R and B club, sampling more of the local beverages and making merry. By now our little group had become quite a fun huddle of mismatched travelers, and our last night together we had a great time.

The next morning everyone set out in different ways to follow beaten tracks - John and Alex went off to hunt down the sneaky car park and perhaps set off for Lisbon-though both have remarkable tendencies to get side-tracked, Sean went off to Seville to see a bit more of Spain and Kylie and I, feeling thoroughly trodden on, made our weary way to the bus station to haul arse back to Barcelona for our last two nights in Spain.

We were a pathetic huddle once again at a station, as we waited for a bus a few hours away. We felt rather grim, exhausted, happy from the past few days but quite beaten actually. With the immune system dozing a nasty cold snuck in and well it was probably a good idea we were on the long trail home, well to England, closest home for now.

The bus pulled up and after wearily swatting away a rather peculiar Nigerian who had decided it was love at first sight, boy was he wrong, we climbed on the bus and sat through another day's travel.

Barcelona we once again headed for Kabul-the packed hostel we'd vowed never to return to. It's a funny thing that, we now understood why people do go back there, to share stories, to give advice, to scoff at the virgin travelers with clean clothes, to laugh over the crap times, remember the awesome times, but also as a sense of closure- feeling how things might have changed for us, how we looked at things there before and after we'd seen more. Besides, we'd sleep like logs how we felt and it was the only one we knew where to crawl to when the bus came in at midnight.

So we checked in and played a game or two of pool before working our way to bed. The night was rather random and dreams mingled with people wheeling bicycles in and out of the dorm as they left for the 'trick bike championships' - whoopeee.

The next day we went over to the Picasso museum. It was great to see because I've always felt a bit lost when looking at Picasso's work, in how people might view his shattered images as 'art', but it was great to see the entire collection, his simple line drawings packed with emotion, and his beautiful paintings before what I can only imagine was a drunk and drugged phase, as I still can't appreciate the cut up crap. His earlier work, however, was gorgeous - but like he said 'When I was a child, I could draw like a man. It was only when I grew older, that I learned to draw like a child'.

We walked about and collected a few things here and there, found out the hostel fee included a big tasty dinner (thanks for mentioning it the other nights guys) as well as a free Flamenco show. Here there were spotlights, two singers, a drummer and both a male and female performer. The guy was fantastic - a black guy, but he danced with such conviction, his feet a blur.

The next day all that was left was to pack our bags for the last time in Spain, and make our way over to Girona Airport, out in the sticks. We shuffled along the terminal, smiling lazily as we pondered our travels through Spain and Portugal. Kylie was a good travel partner, as we were that little push of strength for each other when it was needed. We laughed a lot, gritted our teeth through a few tough times but no tears, and squabbles were few, so I couldn't have asked for a better lot. XXXPart of me was relieved to walk into Stanstead airport, returning to familiarity, though part still wandered about the streets of Spain, looking for anything we'd missed, people we didn't meet and adventures that were hiding out there. I think in everything a bit of you is left to dwell, and in return you get some awesome memories to dabble in every now and then. But life goes on, and so must ours, as we head to our promised places on the apple farm!

Missing Madrid

May 24 2006

So lagging behind just a wee bit guess it's time for a catch up, seeing as though I am no longer roughing toughing and glass-of-wine-ing it and am back in bonny England.

Um, yeah so last off we were in Cadiz on the South Coast of Spain. Around this time it had become sadly apparent that if we intended to have at least one meal a day in England when we got back, which was a rough plan, we'd in fact need to return a week early from our travels - this was after finding out we couldn't stay with people we thought we could - gosh so complicated. Anyway, so booked new return tickets for 6 days earlier. Sigh.

So left Cadiz to return to Seville for one night before going on to Madrid the following morning. We got back and my cousin led us to the heart of the Festival - a huge area that had been done up the month before for the carnival. The streets are lined with fairy lights and bordered with hundreds of little gazebos - each one representing an important party or company in Spain, as well as ones open to the general public - which were, more often than not, noisier, brighter and drunker than any of the others. There were girls dressed in bright Flamenco outfits, floods of booze, cart horses, booze, candy floss, popcorn and tombola stores - oh, and some booze. As our 8 hour early morning trip to Madrid leaned menacingly on our shoulders, it remained a light-hearted night and we got back at a decent hour, passing many merry-makers only on their way in - Spanish people know how to party, well into the later hours of the following morning.

So the next evening we found ourselves in Madrid. We teetered over to Los Amigos backpackers and got little dorm bunks, bigger than the muffin tray we'd occupied in Barcelona and only 8 people in our room - we didn't know what to do with the space!

Madrid seemed like a nice city, see I must say 'seemed' like, as we took the travel guide's description of 'party city' disgustingly to heart and did just that-party. Which meant that what I did see of Madrid was generally shoaled in darkness or early morning sun, which meant my eyes were by that stage a little shoaled in darkness too.

So the first evening we happened upon some interesting characters - three guys from Australia. Two who were traveling together (no no, not like Broke Back) were mad, absolute nutters, John and James, which resulted in many laughs and a good time. They were generally the instigators to all our mischievous deeds and so I'm shafting responsibility on that one. The third was an ex-marine, funny guy, Sean, who added to the mix and what a mix it was!

So the first night we got cajoled into a pub crawl, real arm-twisting stuff! Ten Euros covered entrance at four bars and a salsa club as well as 5 shots (3 of which were the dreaded Tequila!). So somewhere along the line we had a fantastic time, danced the night away - drank cocktails like Mojito's and Caipirinhia and somehow fumbled our way home as the sky was getting light. In fact the light probably helped us with that. Good light.

So if my memory serves me well, we went on the pub crawl on Sunday night and returned somewhere on Wednesday. It was madness! But the Monday we did manage a trip to the aeroporto - Jimmy (James) had to unexpectedly return to work after his boss did, so we took the rather scenic route, bumped n scratched the hire car (not ours, theirs) and got home safely. it's odd though - when you're at home it often feels like a chore going to the airport if you're not the one going, but at this stage in our trip, besides a bit of an adventure, it felt good to do something normal - with Kylie and my budget Taxis were a joking luxury, I hadn't even been in a car since I left South Africa. So yeah, it was good - and good for laughs. The airport was off the map we had so once we left the tattered edge we hadn't a clue where to head. But managed to return to the round-about-area of the backpackers, and leave the car in an underground parking lot that disappeared a day later.

The next night we went out to a few bars, we'd collected another member to our colourful (again not in the Broke Back sense) parade, 'Alex' from Manchester who turned out to be a closet booty-dancer; though he'd deny it I'm sure. We went to a few places, a few more and then trailed home I guess.

The next day we managed to get up, the whole group plus a Polish girl called Amka we'd finding hiding in our dorm, though apparently also on the pub crawl. Ooops. Anyway so we went to a bull fight in Madrid Bull Ring-apparently the biggest in the world. Still not entirely sure how I feel about the fight actually-well, think 'fight' is a bit generous. There were 6 bulls all together, facing three matadors, one at a time of course.

The bull would come out into the ring a tad confused and then race toward a matador-in-training on the other side of the ring. As he neared, the matador-wannabe would duck behind a camo-wall, and the bull would blink dumbly, standing frustrated at this magical disappearance. Not the brightest crayons in the box, you can't but feel a bit sorry for the young nimble tanks as they aimlessly charge about the bull ring, tiring themselves out and never once stopping to ponder the bull-shaped drag marks toward a closed menacing door.

Anyway, gets a tad nasty after the matadors - a picador comes out astride what appears to be a horses head sticking out of a mattress - good thing too! What with the charges the knackered horse faces. All whilst this is happening, the guy on top has a spear, and well, it gets a bit graphic. So yeah, um, by the time THE Matador comes out, the bull is quite buggered and, well, no happy endings for him I'm afraid.

Spain/Porti Continued...

Monday, May 15, 2006 1:37 PM
So human nature is indeed a rather fickle thing. After telling people in pain-staking detail about our 'harrowing ordeal' with a train station and sleepless night, we emphasized how much it changes a person. How as shitty as it seemed at the time, it is perhaps something everyone should experience to humble them and remind them where they are in life. But then you're sitting on a sea-front patio gazing out at the engulfing sea and you notice a mark on the table the cleaning lady omitted in her whirl-wind clean of the, and you're tutting in disapproval as you recall your pillows which are a tad hard, perhaps reception will have another. And you're ridiculous mind rambles on selfishly. It seems it's not in our nature to take these experiences and be better people or any of that hog wash, but more that you adapt to the situation you are dealing, one at a time.

Anyway, but we had left Albufeira and as my emails are usually tilted more toward the shallow approach I'd hate to break into in-depth thought now!

We happened upon a quaint little town called Faro and, allow the weather wasn't quite the shoe that should fit a coastal little town, windy and chilly, we were again cornered by a bank holiday and pushed to stay there a long weekend. I'm sure we dabbled in small town activities but can't say any stood out much - ah but the bone chapel in ominous glory was quite a sight. It was behind a huge monastery that grumpily leaned on its open doors. The details were delicate but much darker than other buildings we'd seen, although my opinion was perhaps swayed by the knowledge I was there to see a chapel made from human bones. So after humouring the large rooms with a point click here, a point click there, we wafted along 'pretty' rooms and 'nice' paintings, waiting in suspenders for a sneaky little chapel of human remains. Tucked in the corner of a lush overgrown garden we espied our grail and made our way toward the entrance. Inside it was quite something to stand in a room about 10meteres long and 3metres high and not an inch of wall or ceiling could be seen - only sculls, femurs and vertebra nestled calmly. Were it not for the fact that the décor was of course human remains, it may have been quite tasteful, their arrangement and all. Bit sick really isn't it? Supposed to be a reminder to all God's followers that whoever we are, we all die and it's only really what we do in life that makes a difference. Or something. I don't know, I just saw hundreds of human sculls and took ominous pictures and touched a few femurs. Pretty nifty.

So off to Spain, as we had walked from Spain to Portugal, we wondered how we would make the leap back. After a bus ride to the border town, it was to be by ferry- a five minute meander and we were back on Spanish soil. On this leg of the trip we met another German - Kylie seems good at collecting them, perhaps for their strong command of English, ironing and camping. So again I forget his name so I'll just call him Heinz. Heinz had been staying with a friend in Lisbon and had done the trip from Seville to Portugal - the opposite to the route we were intending so he had good worth, showing us where, from the ferry, the little train station was hiding, a 30minute trudge through town. He, obviously, had a rail pass for Europe so his 2Euro fair sneered at our 20Euro equivalent as we mumbled about Nazis and such.

So the better part of the day used up by traveling, we arrived in Seville. My cousin offered instructions on how to get to her area - we never imagined Seville to be as big at city-like as it in fact was -yet another scandal!

Seville was dauntingly large in comparison to the happy little towns we'd become familiar with, but it still had a hint of that European charm. What added somewhat to the charm was that it was the Abril Ferria - April Festival, where all people, young and old, through caution and plain clothes to the wind as they donned the most colourful flamenco outfits. From 2 to 60 years old, everyone seemingly squashed into their favourite figure-hugging dress and strode proudly about the streets. The centre of the Ferria was further in town and Elisa, my cousin whom we were to be staying with, promised to take us on the weekend.

The second day in Seville we set out with a tattered map to see the famous Sevillian sights. Frequently teetering off course, we wandered about for 8 hours but managed to see the Cathedral in which Christopher Columbus' body rests and the Alcazar - a stunning Arabic palace with gardens you wanted to get lost in. In the evening Elisa took us to a non-Hollywood Flamenco show. The seemingly simple performance fell back on what many others couldn't-talent. Although it wasn't quite thrilling, it was moving, as the rapid stamping enforced the passion with which the lone voice sang.

The next day we were off to Cadiz - a wee town hovering on the South Coast of Spain. Although the repetitiveness was losing effect, again the town boasted little narrow cobble-stoned streets dented with lazy cafes and lazier tourists, normally opening out onto a big square (the uh roads, not the tourists) which often ran up to a church or old ornate building. On one such occasion we heard the square before it appeared and were treated to a Capoeira display - an ancient form of Brazilian non-contact fighting, showing it as an art form. Here the young people to the chant and song and make-shift instruments accompanying them, faced each other one at a time doing fluid movements requiring excellent muscle tone and concentration. The song with a rapid beat was quite catchy, and before you knew it you were clapping and singing along.

We staying in Cadiz three nights and were determined to get ourselves a tan. On the last day we went down to the beach followed, obviously, by a menacing black cloud and in our jeans and costume tops we lay, shivering, but determined. Every now and the sun would wander out behind a cloud, gasp and hide back away. After a couple of hours we decided enough was enough and we wandered back toward our room. Now being a person who likes to do things properly, I didn't just tan; I baked and burnt myself, stupidly, to a crisp. Sigh. A few hours later the top half of my body ached and wafted off waves of heat, as people passing by in the street seemed to huddle next to me with the night-time chill descending. That night someone had sneakily replaced my sheets with sandpaper and with each movement a grumble ensued.

So after Cadiz, a beautiful city with a friendly character, we returned to the hustle and bustle of Seville, with the Ferier still under way. Elisa promised to take us to the Ferrier that night to see what the fuss was all about.

Sea toes and sunshine

06 May 2006 12:23:53 AM

Alrighty, so rather behind on the whole tales from afar so again will have to recount with great but speedy accuracy. So whizzed through Lisbon enjoying every minute to arrive haphazardly in a little town not even our travel guide thought to mention. Once we had alighted from our shaky steed, we looked dumbly at Odd Hoyning, the 60-year old Norwegian from Norway, who didn't quite seem to know what to do with us after wondering why he had made the offer of sharing his little town. Perhaps he was, as we were, banking on a sunny day at the beach but the pouring rain was a bit of a fiddle.

There's a saying somewhere that was rather apt from this point in our trip - 'The rain in Spain follows us bloody everywhere' or so it began to seem, as it had encroached on our happy sunshine of Lisbon, beating us to this little coastal town. So a little awkwardly we got into Odd's car, a Peugeot convertible, and saw our life flash before our blood-shot eyes as he took daring little coastal road bends at 100km/hr whilst nonchalantly pointing out the fauna and flora that blurred by. A little shaken, well very, even, we fell out at the other end after peeling our white fingernails from the dashboard.

Odd's house was really pleasant, tasteful decor, gosh this is sounding exciting - anyway, put down our bags, and went about preparing a traditionally Norwegian meal - Cod stew. To be fair it was fine. That's fair enough so moving on, um, Odd had a Portuguese friend called Nelson who was so brash and openly raw, bordering rude, you couldn't help but like him. He shared with us his passion for going to Morocco every year as he just had to put two feet on African soil to remind him where he came from - Mozambique, actually. He left there 12 years ago but had no recollection of such foreign countries as Botswana and Swaziland - how odd... Actually, come to say that, it's amazing how stupidly often you use a person's name if it happens to be an adjective, I personally blame the parents but alas, Odd seemed to be my choice word for describing almost everything as I managed to fit both my feet in my mouth.

So Nelson brought with him these things called 'Persivas'. I'm not quite sure how to describe them really, without of course using someone's name, but they looked like little monster toes, hung in clusters growing out of a foot-like mound. Really attractive. Rather intrigued, I watched them bubble and boil wondering how they might compare with jellied eels and if I should try to bow out now. Knowing Kylie and I weren't getting out of this one with Nelson's strong personality, I heard her chime 'Oh, I can't eat them, I'm allergic to seafood' 'Doh!' So like a lone ranger, I picked up a cluster, inches from my mouth, Nelson asked what I thought I was doing. Lowering the limb I blinked a reply as he plucked one from the bunch, wriggled it out of its little rubber tube and ate it. Now somewhere between amusement and nausea I managed to do the same, and settled down to eat my portion of deep-sea toes, still quite unable to explain what they were, but they beat the cod stew. Most things would. But they really weren't bad.

Anyway, rushing along, went out for some drinks, had a few laughs and the following morning, got a lift in the death trap to Albufeira - the town in which our 4-star hotel resided, on the beach of course. Now paralleling a 4-star hotel to, say, a train station floor is a tricky thing. We arrived in the reception area and immediately got the evil eye from the desk staff who spied our backpacks and desperately wanted the lot, including us, removed from public view. With a dirty sneer, near laughing, the man behind the counter asked 'Do you have a reservation?' knowing nod and smile to his fellow colleagues, he'll sort this out. 'Yes I do, here's my confirmation notice'. Slightly taken aback, obviously from my charm and astounding wit, he took the paper and held it to the light to read, like someone checking a large possibly counterfeit banknote. He begrudgingly but quickly told the bell boy to put our backpacks on a trolley and show us to our rooms, a task which turned out to be rather awkward as 'Pedro' (generalising here) rolled them over looking for the handle.

So we shot up the lift to the 6th floor and were shown to our home for the next week - a gorgeous sea view, clean beds with ensuite showers and little soaps and shower caps and things. It was splendid and we again unpacked our four items of clothing and five minutes later found ourselves lounging on our generous patio, talking a little more snootily than before.

Being the Easter weekend, Albufeira was crawling with stripy English tourists, and although it was fun to again hear a language we understood, it mostly came from retired old coffin-dodgers or little screaming snotty kids on a family holiday, so during the day we tried to keep to ourselves. We were in a perfect position to experience the local night life and did so with gusto, meeting an array of interesting characters. To spare the details, some mornings were rougher, or more absent than others, and the first few days were spent mildly tanning and going to local little markets - you know, all that taxing stuff. Sadly the rain made its way to our side and the beach seemed a tad glum as we planned the rest of our trip to try to coincide with our budget, trying not to cling too much to clean beds and - gasp, a maid coming in every morning to make them! Scandalous.

At the end of the week we checked out with a rather relieved employee, who showed us the little back side door which was 'quicker to the bus station'. With a wave the door shut and almost sounded as if it were locked, and relocked just to check. Weird. So we hopped on a bus and, wanting to dabble a tad more in the delights of Portugal, headed to another coastal city called Faro, edging nearer to the Spanish border. Although it was rainy and a tad chilly, it was a likeable city, and we decided to give it a bash and give the weather a day to calm down before we went across to Spain.

Sipping up Spain

Sent: 17 April 2006 02:33:46 PM

I know it's been a while and worry that if someone were to off me over here, no one would ever know - or in fact know not to send the authorities off to Spain! But in Portugal now, loving it 'muchly' and now will take on the task of trying to exploit some of the highest and lowest moments of my life, so here goes... get comfy.

So we arrived at Stanstead airport (uk) to join the snaking Ryan Air queues, got to the front and quoted my secret code (I'm still a big skeptic at these internet transactions, just waiting for some nasty man to ask me to 'prove it') in return for a bit of paper. It caught my eye that this bit of paper daringly lacked a seat number. This had happened before, I recalled, when I had gone to Prague. And yes, similarly, when it was time to board, the air hostess lifted the fun fair rope as we all dashed in to find a seat and pulled the bar down awaiting our fun ride.

So we landed in Barcelona. Well, actually we landed an hour outside of Barcelona-see that's the sneaky ploy, to make you spend that money you saved being thrifty on other modes of transport to arrive in anywhere sporting a traffic light, tarred road - town-like really.

So we met the night time breeze as we stepped out the mini-me station, looking about, both sure what for as we had no idea where to head to next. There we found Marissa, or rather were found by her. She was an Australian, from Australia apparently, though she'd been traveling through Mexico the last 8 months. In a mixture of disgust and delight I recognised her as a traveller-extraodinaire. Sure the back pack was a giveaway but apart from that she had the old, tattered clothes and - gasp - the dreadlocks. Those would not be easy to obtain.

As she toked on her own-rolled cigarette (see pg 57 in Traveler Guru) she spoke a bit about how she hadn't worked, just traveled and now was going to do Spain then go home. I wanted to prod her, maybe sniff her hair but was too frightened I'd catch something, and sure I saw some movement in there that was not her own. So from a safe distance I asked where she'd be spending the night, waiting for the romantic under a bridge version. 'Oh, I've booked a night at hostel Kabul - very lively backpackers in the city'. Bitch. 'Oh yeah, we were planning on staying there too, you know if, there's space, otherwise we'll look for a bridge' I lied, laughing forcibly. I think she noticed. I continued, 'Cool. So how'd you travel so long without working?' 'I worked like a mother f#cker before I left' Sniff. blink blink 'Oh, cool.'

So we hopped on a bus and then went about looking for the square the hostel was a part of. We pushed Marissa forward to ask for directions but she said she spoke Spanish, not Catalan. 'Oh yeah, of course' a replied, thinking what the f#ck - aren't we in Spain. But even so, she managed to Catalan us in the right direction and we set off on a dirty metro.

We searched a five-sided 'square' and saw Kabul, well heard it first really. For the second time that night I was both delighted and disgusted as we entered a room filled with smoke and drinks and music and laughter. Now nearing midnight we were anxiously waiting in a queue to find out if there were any open beds. The last two beds in a dorm were ours for the taking. I gave Kylie a knowing smile saying 'Oh yeah, 6 or 8 people, don't worry, it's pretty normal.' 'Sorry, what's that? 18 - 18 PEOPLE IN OUR DORM?? Oh yeah, cool, whatever.' So we left Marissa and didn't see her again.

So we lugged our bags up the stairs to the fifth floor, the elevator pinging down the hall. Awesome. The man behind the counter explained how our bathroom was a floor down. Fantastic. We went towards the dorm door and opened it. In the darkness we could see that none of the little leprechaun bunk beds had the midgets in them, found ours and sighed. We took out our jarmies, locked our bags in the lockers squashed between the beds, and tottled down stairs.

First priority was food, which we found rather shoddy in a dried roll with a slice of salami. I looked at the man and again at the vibrant fresh picture on the menu and back to my fossilized dome. I sighed, we ate, and went back to the lively room for a bit of fun before bed. We played some pool and chatted to a few people - meeting one Russian, 2 Ozzies, an American (eegh), a German and someone who's English was so bad we still don't know his origin.

It was near 3am when we climbed into bed and the fact that half our dorm beds were still empty worried me - and rightly so. The rest of the night our room was a station, of continuous comings and goings so that we might have only got a 15 minute nap - well might have if I didn't feel like I was sleeping in a bucket- Kylie saying how here feet stuck over the edge-she's half my size!

Anyway the next day we grumpily set off deciding we had to get out of the main city, and we did, finding ourselves on a 1 o'clock train to Zaragoza, to stay for a night en route to Pamplona. Zaragoza was a bit of a non entity, so just fill in whatever you like here - blah blah blah - the next day we arrived in Pamplona.

Pamplona was, for some reason, a city that warmed to us both immediately - and became the first city to remind us why exactly we were traveling. The charismatic little streets spilling off the dazzling squares took us on friendly walks, and we eventually found a little place we decided to stay. With my charades improving I had the confidence to shop around a little to find a place that was, although the bathroom was down the hall, was magic. The 2nd floor room looked out onto a side street of the Main Square and cascades of noises and thrilling rumbles wafted into the room, diffusing into our souls. Little handfuls of marching bands wafted past our teeny balcony as we both squashed out to see them pass by - apparently celebrating another victory for the Olympic hand ball team or something. Yes, perhaps we'll stay here for a few days.