Contrary to guidebook gospel
Being the seasoned travellers that we are, we decided to arrive in Barcelona, in peak season, without accommodation arranged. This, we agreed, would give us the opportunity to find somewhere that felt right. Right? Wrong. We spent the first 4 hours of our first day in Barcelona, wedded to the guidebook searching for a bed – any bed – and came up with nothing. Well one place that looked like a glorified brothel and if it weren’t for the decisive impulse to jump on a train to somewhere else, we may have had to take our lives into our hands.
Luckily I had been told about a little place not far down the coast, called Valencia. So we booked our ticket, in a fairly straight-forward fashion, and were stranded at the train station for a few hours waiting for our train. We took this time to load up on picnic items and drop in for a quick jug of sangria at the local around the corner. They took our order and within 10 mins were trying to hasten us out the door because it was siesta time. So we threw back our litre of sangria and stumbled, shopping bags in hand, back to the station to negotiate ourselves onto the train. After a day of heat and tension and stress; it was hilarity in all directions and a gorgeous coast-laden trip to our long-awaited beds.
Valencia is a city of inspiration and exhalation. Imagine balmy night strolls through colourful ambling narrow alleys. A night spent sipping coffee and downing chocolate crepes on the terrase, overlooking the beauty and madness of the people in the Plaza de la Virgin. Scoffing down vegetarian paella and San Miguel beer in equal portions. Wandering back and actually re-locating our hostel, falling into bed, only to be rudely awoken at several intervals by lights, cigarette smoke, drunken chanting, and english girls babbling on the balcony at 5am. The life and times of a 12 person dorm.
Our days were spent sunbathing under a rented umbrella (worth every eurocent) on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea – feasting, siestering, sangriaring, sunning it up, floating on timeless ripples of water which the locals refer to as waves (and amusingly attempt to body surf). 
Back to our long-awaited rumble with Barcelona.
It was mostly about Gaudi (Parc Guell, Casa Baillo, Sagrada Famillia – all must sees)
with a little dash of history, a peppering of spanish cuisine (vegetarian tapas found their way to us), pinches of buskers and flamenco music, a teaspoon of dance – Spanish house of course, a cupful of picnicking in parks, and a hint of cycling round the city. 
We parted ways early one morning – both hungover and feeling sorry for ourselves for our respective transit lounges ahead. My mate headed back to London while I hopped on a train north to a little town called Figueres known for one thing – the Dali Museum. 
Completely designed and kitted out by the man himself – an experience of mammoth proportions – featuring sculptures and intstallations both inside and out.
Apart from the museum the town is a dead end – luckily I had a ticket out to continue north across the pyreness border and back home to France. So here I sit, in a little town outside Toulouse, spending my days picking fruit and herbs, soaking in the sunshine and the mountain view. Yep, life is pretty pretty pretty good. Could be doing this for a while yet. . . . . .
Tags: Spain
Jyai
September 6th, 2006 at 10:15 am
What an amusing and skillfully crafted story. I enjoyed every twist and turn. I almost feel that I was there; the sun, sangria, ripples on the water are so real.
Love,
Mum xx