Barcelona - Day Nine

Another day, another hangover...

Yesterday I left Aidan and caught a bus to the train station. I knew the journey was only about 15 minutes, so I didn't bother taking off my backpack, despite the fact the bus was crammed with old people and really hot. We got stuck in traffic for about 40 minutes (plenty of time for me to get good and sweaty), so I jumped off and walked to the station instead.

It turns out that Atocha Station (the one I was trying to travel from) was the one targetted in the Madrid bombings in 2004, and I had got there on the fourth anniversary of the event. As a result, all the streets leading up to the station were closed by the police (which freaked me out as I walked towards it - I got worried there might have been another attack or something), and I had to wait outside for about half an hour while the memorial service took place. It was very dignified and moving, but by that point all I wanted was to get on a bloody train and get out of there.

I caught one of Spain's impressive AVE trains (high speed and ultra-modern), and made it to Barcelona in just two and a half hours, where I checked into Hostel Kabul. Kabul is a busy, funky place on the Plaça Reial - a palm tree lined square just off Barcelona's busiest street. It's full of travellers from all over the world, and is equipped with the most important feature of any good hostel; a cheap bar.

After a cheeky warm up beer, I soon felt sociable enough to sit myself down at a table and start meeting people. I ended up making friends with a few of the staff, and made plans to go out that night with a laid back Ozzie guy, an Ozzie girl with very good taste in British music, and a crazy Italian girl.

Don't ask me how it happened, because I'm not really sure, but at about midnight the girls decided they wanted to check out a strip club...

One hour, twenty euros and a couple of beers later, we stumbled back out onto the streets. Victoria, the Italian girl, had spent most of the time sitting at the front of the stage cheering on the ropy old strippers, while Scott (the Ozzie guy) and I sat a little further back exchanging 'what the hell's going on' glances with each other.

After that place, we somehow talked our way into a private bar that was hidden away amongst some flats, which had no sign, and a locked door we had to bang on for five minutes to be let in. I was half expecting a little window to slide open in the door, but instead we just had to chat to a couple of drunk guys who seemed to work there. The bar turned out to be a sort of old-fashioned, art deco kind of place, with the feel of a cuban mansion - high ceilings and lazy fans whirring away in the gloomy half-light. Despite it's secretive location, it was full of locals who all clearly knew the best place to drink into the early hours.

I made it home at about 4am, and no doubt woke up everybody in my dormitory. I'll probably manage to have a sober night sometime soon.

I really love Spain.