DAY 265: I woke up not really much hung over. My brain was too busy cursing myself out for being robbed just a couple of hours before. I sucked it up and just spent the morning on my laptop, attending to Blog duties while Juan and Jack were passed out cold all morning.

"Fuck, I'm wasted," Jack said, finally waking up around one. "I don't think I'm drinking again."

"I don't know how many times I've said that before," I replied.

"What are we doing today?"

"We can walk around... and then go drinking." I joked. In his extreme hung over state, he told me just the thought of beer was making him sick.

MID-AFTERNOON, Juan left us to go with his friends to the lesser-known bull run in the town of Teurel, just a 90-minute ride up north, leaving Jack and I to wander Valencia before our evening train back to Barcelona. Jack was a zombie as we walked the streets; not even his surefire cure for hangovers, yogurt drinks, was helping. I dragged him through the downtown area, looking for El Corte Inglès, the Macy's of Spain, where I eventually replaced my wallet, camera and Memory Stick with no problem -- other than the fact that I had to part with even more money to acquire them.

Soon we were on the only available train that evening we could get bound for Barcelona. Jack passed out in his chair while I wrote and watched a documentary on the monitors about the Ethiopian monks of Lalibela, where I had experienced just a month and a half before. It was around eleven when we arrived -- too early to go to the airport, too late to find a room. Luckily Jack had a hook up in Barcelona, his friend Nicolas who took us out the week before. He gave us directions to his high-rise loft apartment in town, complete with a balcony view of the nighttime streets below (picture above). We could have taken an easy Metro train with no transfers, but Jack's big luggage was back into the mix and so we took a cab.

It was a welcoming thought to hear that Nicolas was too tired to go out, but he had some houseguests over from Uruguay who wanted to go out -- it was Saturday after all.

"[Nicolas] says he doesn't feel like going out either," Jack told me, "but I think we should." Hung over or not, Jack was back. He'd have another last night out, this time in Barcelona, starting off with a bunch of tapas prepared by Nicolas for everyone to snack on before clubbing.

Exhausted, I took a nap for an hour before we head out around two, back to the Port Olympic, the strip mall of bars and clubs, home of the pole dancers. We met up with Nicolas' friend Jorge and the two Uruguayan girls, Majo and Silvina, and wandered from bar to bar, club to club, nodding our heads and dancing to music of all styles, including American dance. I thought it was wrong when the bouncer of this one club denied admission of a black guy simply (for all that I could see) that he was black -- most of the music was performed my black people! No matter, the guy just danced his ass off right outside the club for all to see.

HAVING LEARNED MY LESSON the night before, I stuck to Cokes all night (there was a beach nearby to easily pass out in). Meanwhile, Jack was over his hangover.

"I think it's beer time."

The night went on until the break of dawn. Jack had his international flight at nine, meaning he really should be at the airport by seven. It was already passed seven by the time we got back to Nicolas' apartment because there were no taxis available from the port. Nicolas seemed really relaxed about Jack needing to get to the airport, far away from the city center, while Jack was beginning to really stress out. For the first time in our time together, it was he that was actually more stressed out about rushing over. "You think I'll make it to the airport in time?"

"You're cutting it close," I said.

Jack dashed off in a taxi with his mini-fridge suitcase after a quick goodbye -- "Great time in Spain, man. I'll read all about it on The Global Trip." The taxi took off, leaving me alone again in Barcelona. I walked down the sidewalk, a lone man on a fairly empty street towards the Metro.