Paris

Ladies and Gentlemen, ready your wallets, you've arrived in Paris! 10 Euros from the airport into town on public transport? That's nothing! Merely a taste of what's to come. But I shouldn't complain, the public transport is only so expensive because you're paying for the extra bonuses that come with the Paris metro; the horrendous smell combination of old garbage, human urine and filthy homeless people. And the best part, not a policier to be found. Good lord...

Having arrived in Paris with plenty of time to get to our hostel, we boarded the disgusting train and set off to our destination. Many stops and a few near vomits later, we found our hostel and prepared to take it nice and easy for the rest of the day, until we found out that it was National Night of Museums, the one day a year when most major museums all over the continent open their doors for free, into the late hours of the day. Well, that was the end of our plan to rest, and we once again braved the metro down into the heart of the city of light, to go see the Louvre. We walked around inside for hours, seeing all the "big" pieces (Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, Winged victory, etc.) and most of the little ones, including Napoleon's apartments which were still fully furnished and quite beautiful, if a bit musty. I think that the building itself was the most beautiful part of the museum; an ancient French palace full of frescoes, gold metalwork, and every other conceivable form of French ponce and opulence. When we walked outside the sun was just setting and set just the right light on the whole place, including the glass pyramid, which I captured in one beautiful panorama, one of my favourites of the trip so far. That night we treated ourselves to some Italian food in the heart of Paris, after walking past what looked like a riot but turned out to be a soccer rally, complete with burning flares... go figure.

Sunday we decided to head to the Arc de Triomphe, then we walked to the Eiffel tower. We accidentally ran into the place where Diana died; there were fresh flowers and pictures all over the place on top of the tunnel, beside the replica of the flame from the statue of liberty. I personally didn't care much when Diana died (or rather I cared only as much as I care when I hear of anyone's death), but obviously it was and remains very significant to a lot of people. Later that day, the arrogant little French guy working at the hostel told us that the flame was a gift from the US to memorialize Diana's death, which is completely erroneous; the flame was there long before Diana's death and hence could not have commemorated it, even though it's used as a kind of unofficial memorial. Other poor advice from the arrogant French guy included the assertion that there are no replicas of the statue of liberty in Paris (there are actually two). Woops! That night we ate dinner out at a wonderful French restaurant by l'Hotel des Invalides: I have to thank Lana for forcing me to actually spend a bit of money on food in Paris, because it was worthwhile every single time. After all, French cuisine (and eating out in general) is an important part of French culture, which I likely would have missed if Lana hadn't been there to prod me along in that direction.

On Monday Lana went clothes shopping in the morning while I stayed at the hostel to relax a bit, and that night we went down to the Eiffel tower again to see the lights show, which was absolutely spectacular! The full moon swung right through the top arch of the tower as the sun was setting; I couldn't imagine a more picturesque moment if I tried. I felt nice and rested for Tuesday, when we went out to super tourist trap Versailles, thickly populated by tourists from all corners of the compass crammed into hot tour buses and lining the halls of the palace. Versailles is absolutely huge! I had no idea it would be that big, but the French don't do anything half-assed. Our favourite part of the entire complex was Marie Antionette's estate, complete with an entire village worth of cottage style houses where the servants lived. The pond was full of huge carp, birds and lillypads, which made the place even more picturesque. We just walked around and explored the place until our feet were tired, and then we went back to Paris and tried not to throw up on the metro.

Wednesday brought us to the Moulin Rouge, Sacre Coeur and Notre Dame (luckily both were free, as I'm not in the business of paying to go into churches), which were atleast mildly entertaining if not monumental tourist traps. In fact, in both churches we found automated Jesus coin vendors... really? But that's what you get in Paris; you are never alone to contemplate the wonders that surround you, there is no solitude in a city like this. There's always a Parisian trying to sell you a bracelet, a tourist running into you and the sounds and smells of the city are always clawing at your senses. I wasn't the biggest fan of Paris, but I'm glad I went and tried it out. It's a pity I didn't have time to travel the rest of the country, as I think I would have loved it. Next time :)

On Thursday we left for London on the train (which is so much nicer than flying), and arrived to find that Kelly was waiting for us at the gate, having arrived earlier that day from Vancouver. After a couple of months without my Kelly, I can tell you I was more than slightly pleased to see her, to say the very least. So ended my duo travels with Lana, and I have to thank her for helping me see more culture in Paris than I otherwise would have, and dragging my ass out to a few places that I wouldn't normally have gone, but where I ended up having an awesome time. Now, I know it took me a few weeks to write this blog, which is due mostly to my constant business over that period (including Dan's wedding!), but look forward to my posts about London and Edinburgh in the coming few days, so that I can catch myself up and start writing about my travels as they happen.

C

Barcelona Round 2

Well holy crap, Lana sure has kept me busy. More accurately we've kept each other busy; it's nice to have someone to motivate, and to motivate me in turn. It's been an entire week, and a busy week at that, since I've written a blog, so I'll try and be consice (yeah right). Barcelona was awesome!

Day one (Monday) - I went and picked Lana up at the airport, and we spent most of that day resting due to jetlag and other such long-haul travel concerns. Lana got a migraine and hence not much sleep that night, in what would be the first of a series of futile attempts at sleep for her, poor soul.

Day two - After spending a reasonably relaxing day at and around the hostel the day before, we decided to venture a bit further out. We walked up and down Las Ramblas, somewhere I'd already been but was excited to head back to, and we ventured through the market there, finding everything from bright red tomatoes to endless seas of sugary candy. Lana went absolutely nuts over the stores in Barcelona, and we spent much of this day plodding through the local stores. I also ended up buying some cheap duds from the H&M downtown, which have been a nice addition to my ever filling backpack.

After a good day's shopping and poking around, we ended up at a nice little restaurant in the ritzy area just north of Las Ramblas. We got to see the professional work of a bona fide Barcelona pickpocket there, as a suspicious looking man wandered about the place a little bit and then finally settled a couple of tables over at a table that hadn't yet been cleaned since its last use. He put his large coat over his chair for a visual shield, and with the deftness of a practised artist he was into an unfortunate German woman's purse; she was sitting right behind him with her bag slung over the back of her chair. The man stood up, put his coat on and left, but Lana, having seen something suspicious, went over and asked the woman if she still had her purse, and her wallet. He was only halfway down the stairs at this point, but a strong language barrier slowed things down, and when the German woman finally clued in and checked her belongings only to find she was missing her wallet, the thief was already long gone. He had taken care to refasten and zip her purse back up; a true professional, and I found I couldn't help but respect his skill. I don't think I'd have been in the same mood if I had been the victim, but luckily for me there was an easier mark in that particular restaurant. As a fairly seasoned traveler, aware of the dangers of the Barcelona tourist scene, I was prepared enough to have my bag tucked neatly between my legs and under my chair, but who knows what other tricks he might have used to part me from my possessions if I'd been his target? Ahh the benefits of dressing like the poor backpacker I am; if no one thinks you have any money, they're not likely to rob you either! And it helps to keep the girls away, too!

We came home to find a fat 60-something Scotsman stinking up our room, who was obviously going to snore like a faltering diesel engine, and settled in for what ended up being another long night for Lana (I can sleep through damn near anything).

Day 3 - A huge day. We took the metro out to Park Guell, which was a wonderful Gaudi-designed park featuring plenty of convex and concave mosaics, sculpted lizard statues, and a gorgeous plaza which turned out to be the roof of a gigantic Romanesque hollow, supported by row upon row of pillars. We had packed a lunch for ourselves, including serrano ham and some delicious mozzarella-like cheese, and made a couple of stupendous sandwiches on our way down to the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's masterpiece of design, over a hundred years in the making with no real end in sight (I've heard figures as varied as 2014 to 2060 as potential end dates). The place was spectacular, it was totally unique in a sea of samey European churches. Pictures can only really show you a little bit of the magic in gaudi's design, which was modern and different in style and structure, yet all the while very traditionally Christian in theme. What you can't see in the pictures is the unparalleled level of detail which has obviously gone into this structure. There are virtually no straight lines in the entire building; it is a flowing, curving monster of an edifice which is so intricate it seems to come more and more alive the longer you examine it. We decided against going inside, both due to general monument/church exhaustion and the prohibitive entrance fee; I think I'll come back when it's finished, instead :)

Lana found numerous boutique stores and marvelled at the fashion, and I suspect her backpack has doubled in weight since the beginning of her trip. How she might be able to get on a plane after both Paris and London, I do not know; she has a French shopping trip planned for later this week. I think for her it's more about seeing the fashion and the artwork that goes into the pieces than actually buying the stuff, although certainly a lot of the former has been going on too (she has at least 4 new pairs of shoes to take home to her already impressive collection). Paris, she says, will be an excersize in seeing lots and not buying much, but whenever she says that she gets this certain devious little twinkle in her eye...

The fat Scotsman was still there when we got home. He still smelled like shit. He still snored like a dying horse with tourettes syndrome. Lana, unsurprisingly by this time, had a poor sleep.

Day 4 - We toured around the gothic center of town, a darkly decorated but wonderful place, and headed into the huge gothic cathedral (free of charge obviously) to take some pictures and admire the architecture and huge vaulted cielings. The gothic quarter was a great time, full of mysterious narrow streets and fun little shops and cafes. From there we went down near the port, into the business area of town, and joined the Spanish working class for lunch at a fun little place called La Barca de Salamanca. For 10 Euros, I got 2 glasses of red wine, some tangy gazpacho, delicious tomato and oil covered bread, canneloni in a cream sauce to start, and beef churrasco as my main course, followed by danty profiteroles and all-you-can-drink peach liqueur for dessert. Tremendous. But how does one go back to work after a lunch like that? The answer of course is that you don't - you Siesta!!!

Having eaten enough calories to keep us running for the next two weeks, we headed out again that evening and saw the special magic fountain show. We were skeptical at first (a magic fountain show? really?) and it didn't get much better when they started the show by playing Celine Dion, but the fountain was very beautiful and took on a plethora of different forms and colours, like a musically synchronized water spewing chameleon. I've scattered some pictures throughout the post.

In a sad yet comedic turn of events, I offhandedly but correctly prophecized the arrival of another fat old man to replace the Scottish fellow. The old Scotsman, having left that morning, had been replaced by an equally old, slightly better smelling yet much stranger man, who answered questions with riddles wrapped in enigmas and continually talked about his likely imaginary best friend Alex, who never quite was around to meet us when we were there... We don't even know where he was from, only that his "Mother from Italy, Father from Egypt and me speak seven language". His favourite language, unfortunately, was grunting and gesturing ambiguously, as we found out while he was trying, in a brief attempt at domesticism ("Woman good for bed, no more. That why me solo!"), to iron his clothes with the ironing board placed directly in front of the inwardly opening door. Okay then. That night, sleep evaded Lana like the carrot tied to the end of the stick; invitingly close yet perpetually out of reach. She must have gotten some or she'd be dead already, but it wasn't much.

Day 5 - We visited the last remaining sites in Barcelona; two Gaudi designed apartments in the heart of the rich, swanky part of town, shortly after we finished at the metropolitan beach. The buildings were beautiful and were quite obviously Gaudi; not a straight line or perpendicular corner to be found. The beach was beautiful and bustling, and we stayed just long enough to get a wee little travelers burn on before we headed back uptown. We spent most of the rest of the day around the hostel, in a local pub watching the Barcelona game, and then eventually heading to bed at a very geriatric hour so that we might actually get some sleep before our repulsively early flight to Paris. The old fat man with the imaginary friend had been replaced by a young fellow from Amsterdam who was certain we'd be leaving before he returned from the clubs, and Lana might have gotten a bit of sleep except for our early departure and the inevitable anxiety which comes from having to wake up very early to catch a flight.

We're currently in our hostel in Paris, munching on fresh grape tomatoes and strawberries from the local market, typing on numerous internet ready devices while dodging the crispy remnants of the various French pastries we've eaten. We've already been quite busy in paris but I'll leave that for another post; I'm sure your eyes are as tired as my fingers are. But then, nobody is as tired as Lana.

C+L

Alhambra 'nother please

Granada was yet another awesome Spanish city. It's the second stop I've made in Spain where I really felt my feet drag when it came time to leave; the first such stop was San Sebastian. I spent my time in Granada in the usual way; walking around aimlessly, finding interesting people to talk to in interesting places. I awoke one morning and walked out of my dorm room on the fourth floor of the hostel, and took the five lazy steps required to take me out onto the rooftop terrace. The sunrise was beautiful (alright you got me, it was 11 am; 7 o'clock doesn't exist in my world), and as I contemplated my day I heard an ice cream truck playing "My heart will go on" by Celine Dion, in a key so shrill that only prebupescents and dogs could hear the high notes. Obviously a good omen to start my day. Or something?

That first full day in the city I went out and bought some food for my stay, brought it home and forgot to put my lunch into my backpack as I set off for a good day's trudging around. When I discovered the lack of lunch in my bag I was "forced" to head into a local cafe and order a delicious roquefort, serrano and tomato sandwich. Wow. That little sandwich kept me going for hours on end, as I climbed the huge hill in town for a spectacular view of the Alhambra accross Granada's muddy river, which itself dissapeared into the mysterious underbelly of the town under a bridge far below, never to be seen again. I took pictures, soaked up the strong sun and watched a few hippies juggle and smoke hukkah in the corner, as groups of French schoolchildren arrived on buses, in droves, and quickly put and end to my meditative mood. I took my leave, vowing to return later that night to get some pictures in the high contrast of the angled evening light. And I did return that evening, with some friends from the hostel, and we took wonderful pictures and enjoyed the bustle of all the tourists and the charming Spanish guitar, which lulled us into a state of semiconsciousness that not even a busload of French schoolchildren could interrupt. I stayed on a couple of hours later than the rest to get proper night-time pictures on long exposure, and the results were excellent (above left).

I quickly made many friends (one would have to try very hard to be anti-social when there's a busy rooftop patio outside one's bedroom door) and ended up cooking an impromptu dinner for 5 in the hostel kitchen; a simple, delicious pasta with six kinds of local vegetables and lots of tomatoes, flavoured with oil, sugar and salt. When asked how much they owed me, I told them that dinner cost 5 Euros, and they thought that 5 Euros was a pretty good price for a nice little pasta dinner, until I clarified that 5 Euros was the total cost, dividing neatly out to 1 Euro each (the vegetables cost just over 1 euro in total; mushrooms, zucchini, tomato, garlic, onion, red and green pepper). Now that's a great deal. I'm always surprised when other people are surprised at how little raw ingredients cost. I suppose the trouble is you have to know how to cook to be able to use raw ingredients; I've also been amazed at how many young travelers don't really know how to cook anything more complicated than Kraft Dinner. I sort of thought that basic cooking was one of the essential skills of a good backpacker, but Spain's hostels (and I suspect this goes for all of Europe as well) are populated by a different kind of backpacker than I'm used to seeing, a more commercial, touristing-rather-than-traveling backpacker. If you know what I mean? Mmmm... Kraft Dinner....

There were some excellent local Moroccan markets which were terribly overpriced but fun to look around on a hot afternoon, and I ended up buying absolutely nothing after having been in half the shops on the street. A good afternoon, in my books, although the shopkeepers might beg to differ. I walked up to the entrance of the cathedral one morning, only to turn right back around after seeing the 4 Euro entrance fee. I've decided that anything more than free is too rich for my blood, at least when it comes to churches, cathedrals, abbeys, basilicas, and anywhere else where a big cross with a little white guy on it is the main attraction, which of course you can't take pictures of.

Having said that, I did shell out 16 Euros to go to the Alhambra on Friday, and that was money well spent. The place was absolutely gorgeous. Carved mosaics, ornate cielings shaped like miniature upside-down cities (photo right), archways leading to winding passageways leading to beautiful lush gardens full of hedge mazes, fountains and statues. I think my favourite part of the Alhambra was probably the water pieces, which came in varying forms and were strategically located throughout the labyrinth structure, which seemed more like a small city than a palace. I would have loved to see Alhambra in its day, fully functional and filled with gorgeous tapestries and inviting scents, Kings and their harems lounging around enjoying heaven on earth. It was certainly beautiful when I was there, but it imparted on me a sort of sterile and vacuous feeling, like wandering around an empty hospital, as if the soul of the place had been faded by centuries of touristing.

While sitting in one of the plethora of beautiful gardens, i overheard an old couple speaking German, and the old lady said something that sounded just like "stop and smell the roses", though I'm sure my translation is entirely spurious. But I decided that it was good advice nonetheless, and literally stopped and smelled the many roses in the garden, each smell slightly different than the last, until I found one glorious pink rose which smelled like just like dessert (though I couldn't tell you what kind of dessert), and I stayed there smelling that rose until a family of birds stared at me for long enough to make me feel self conscious. I took a picture but I would much rather have captured the rich, sweet smell than the look of the thing... how has no one invented a smellera yet? I'll get to work immediately upon my return to Canada.

I spent some of my time helping a young girl from Toronto who was looking for a flat in Granada for the month; Aysha was there to study elementary Spanish and, as such, did not yet have the linguistic tools with which to search for the apartment she so desperately wanted. I made some calls for her and met up with a prospective apartment owner on a couple of occasions, working pro bono as a translator. After settling on a beautiful little flat overlooking the main plaza, my young Canadian friend got stuck at the cash machine trying to take money out of various accounts and cards (one of the things you learn on your first trip abroad - always tell your bank where you're going, and know that they will still block the first transaction anyways, every single time!) and I ran ahead to meet Antonio, the kind old fellow from whom she was renting the apartment. Antonio and I ended up heading up to the apartment and talking Spanish politics for an hour over a cold beer ("If I saw that politician on the street I'd push him under a bus!") before realizing that Aysha was terribly overdue and had likely gotten lost: I shuffled back to the hostel in my flip flops and found her there, talking with her bank to release the funds which she eventually procured and handed over to Antonio in exchange for the keys. I'll consider this my volunteer work for the trip :)

I got up very early yesterday morning, unable to sleep due to tremendous snoring (it was either get up or commit homocide, and homocide nearly won); the sound of rain had a nice calming effect as I watched a French girl accidentally put pancake batter into her Coffee, only to taste it twice and add more pancake batter, shortly before realizing that her coffee creamer was, in fact, pancake batter. She took a quick look around and hid her blush as I pretended to be lost in my book. I boarded a plane yesterday afternoon and flew quickly over to Barcelona, where I find myself now (see my favourite picture from Alhambra, left). It's always wonderful to return to a city you're familiar with; it feels just a little bit like home. You kind of know where you're going, and you sort of know where some things are, and you think you remember a great little Irish bar where you watched a good soccer match one time, and all in all it's just familiar enough to be comforting. I played high-stakes poker in the kitchen throughout the evening last night, using penne pasta for chips, finally losing all of my hard-earned noodles to a bad beat (I had a pair of aces, he won with a 7-5 offsuit...). The funny thing about playing poker in Spain with penne pasta is that the word "pene" means "penis", and so the poor Argentinian receptionist around the corner was probably contemplating suicide after two hours of loudly spoken phrases such as "I'll see your penis and I'll raise you six penises" or "How many penises did he put in the pot? Count your penises please". Of course, I only thought of this after we'd finished playing with our penises. I mean penne.

Tonight my good friend Lana gets into town on a very long flight, so I'm going to meet her at the airport and usher her to the hostel, where she will get her first (and perhaps last, depending on how it goes) taste of backpacking. Barcelona is a damned good place to start. So I guess this is the end of my solo travels for this trip; from now on I will be accompanied by either Lana, or Kelly, or Jason. It's been a great time traveling by myself, with no responsibilities and free to blow where the wind might take me, but in honesty I'm excited to have some traveling companions to share these awesome experiences with. See you tonight Lana!

C

Valencia

Valencia was a blast. The raucous and internationally populated bar on the main floor of the hostel ensured a good night every night (depending on one's definition of "good", of course; the mornings were not as "good"). And of course I didn't forget to walk around the place a whole lot while I was there, and really "drink" in the local culture (this pun inspired by Dr. Michael Hawley). As usual, the town's historical center was a wonderful mix of ornate antique buildings adorned with mischieviously snickering gargoyles, sparkling water-spraying fountains, airy cobblestone plazas, and enough pidgeons to shit all over every inch of it. I've discovered that the best way to figure out which part of town is the historical center (that is, other than to simply walk towards the biggest church on the skyline) is to pick up any map and take a look at the general layout of the roads; if the roads are organized perpendicularly, in neat rows and oriented North-South and East-West, then you are not looking at the historical center of the town. If, on the other hand, the roads appear clumsily laid out, heading in any and every direction, as though a clumbsy toddler had come along and dumped out a box of matches on the map, then you know you're looking at the historical center of town. That's why the historical center is always the best place to walk around; you can spend hours getting lost in the enigmatic labyrinth of narrow streets, and every corner turned brings a new bit of wonder (Left - I wandered into a church and looked up)

In Valencia the architecture was markedly different from my previous Spanish destinations. It had a certain Moorish feel, for lack of a better description. The gothic spires had been mostly (though not entirely) replaced by large colourful bulbous domes, arches and doorways were differently shaped and buildings had a different feel to them, somehow; it's hard to put my finger on, but it just felt different. I wandered in and out of churches holding service, took my time sightseeing and watched the locals buzzing around like busy little bees before settling in for an hour or so to watch a local soccer game as the sun set behind the old city, just over my shoulder. Obviously I took a trillion pictures, and here you see the fruits of that loving labour.

There were parades all over the place on Monday, which was yet another national holiday here in Spain. I didn't even ask why (the answer invariably involves Jesus); I just snapped some photos of the local military regiment in full gear, each soldier completing his costume with a large garden tool of some kind strapped to their back (axes, pitchforks, spades, hammers, shovels... everything but a lawn-mower). After that night's festivities I got myself up later than I wanted to the next morning and headed for the local market, where I saw more skinned bunnies and the like (complete with an excellently sardonic photo on the price tag; the picture will be at the bottom of the post as it has some skinned rabbits in it, and some won't want to see that. Don't scroll down too far unless you do want to see it!), as well as the local array of fresh seafood, wriggling and swimming around in their pens, awaiting the inevitable knife. I was verbally accosted by a geriatric Spanish shop owner after touching a few of her avocados to test for firmness:

"What are you doing touching the avocados?"

"Oh I'm just making sure they're ripe before I buy one"

"Of course they're ripe, you don't go around touching all the avocados!"

"Well... why not?" (not the most pacifying of responses but she was already so upset I didn't mind egging her on)

"In Spain you don't go around touching avocados and then not buy one"

"Well I was going to buy one, but now I'm not..."

"You have ruined all the avocados and now you're not going to buy one!"

"How did I ruin the avocados? I didn't crush them, I just felt them lightly to make sure they were ripe."

"I told you they are all ripe!"

(pointing at a hard green avocado) "That one isn't ripe, look, it's hard as a rock"

"WELL THAT ONE'S GREEN ONLY THE DARK ONES ARE RIPE *&%*^&^$*$ (undecipherable Spanish old lady cursing my soul to satan) YOU TOUCHED ALL MY AVOCADOOOOOOS!"

At this point I thought her head, which looked like a bloated sundried tomato, might explode with anger, so I Shrugged my shoulders with raised eyebrows (in the Spanish fashion) and took my leave, deciding to call it a draw. Though I still think I'm entirely in the right as far as avocado touching goes... I could hear locals all around giggling, so at least we entertained some people with the exchange.

Today I took a seven hour train from Valencia to Granada. I looked up occasionally in between chapters of "The golden compass" (started and finished on the train ride, an excellent read - oh how a good, thick volume can make the time pass) to see rows of olive trees, rolling countryside and mountains in the distance. If Valencia was architecturally different from the Spanish towns I'd visited before, then Granada seems like another country altogether; even my bedposts, made from richly painted wood and shaped like perfectly balanced eggs all pointing skyward, betray the Moorish influence in this region. I heard almost as much Arabic while walking through the streets as I heard Spanish, and the smells and sights of this place seem more closely related to Cairo than to Madrid. As such, this will be an excellent stop for me, and a quick reprieve from traditional European culture and architecture before I head back to Barcelona to pick up Lana. I'm most excited about my trip to Alhambra, which is booked in for Friday afternoon; I'm hoping for a good dose of sunshine so I can capture the sparkling beauty of what's been called the "eighth wonder of the world".

C

***BELOW IS THE IRONICALLY FUNNY BUT KINDA GROSS SKINNED RABBIT PICTURE DESCRIBED ABOVE. Don't say I didn't warn you***

Ibiza

In a word, underwhelming. Having supremely enjoyed my other stops in Spain, Ibiza may have been a bit of a stretch as a destination; I don't really like clubbing until dawn, I don't take controlled substances, and I can't make a party all by myself. So perhaps, in retrospect, going to Ibiza, the drug and club capital of Spain, alone, during offseason, may have not been the very best idea. To add to it, the one small beach they had in the vicinity of the hostel was rendered essentially useless by the fact that the weather was rather dreary. I spent most of my time in Ibiza strolling around, or lazing by the shady poolside and reading, or surfing around on the internet. I got the rest of my trip roughly planned (accomodation and transport), so at least it was a somewhat fruitful stay. The hostel itself was fantastic, and cheap, but it was more of a hotel than a hostel, in that I had my own room and therefore wasn't forced to meet anyone. I ran into a few other travelers staying at the hotel, but as it was very early in the season in Ibiza, the place was a veritable ghost town. The bar downstairs was often populated, but mostly with middle- to old-aged locals in search of cheap beer and old friends. There wasn't much social wiggle room for a solo Canadian, although I did have a great time with the locals watching the third classico soccer match (4th to come this week). I've never seen people so animated over a game of soccer! At one point, when Barcelona scored, one of the guys jumped up on his chair and started screaming some undecipherable garble at the top of his lungs, much to everyone's delight. He then ran into the street, keen to spread his innebriated message to the whole town. Which he did. It was truly entertaining.

After a 6 hour ferry, I am currently back on the mainland in Valencia, yet another beautiful Spanish city. I spent my morning doing laundry (previously insulted olfactory senses throughout the dorm can rest easy tonight), buying food for the next couple of days, and standing around outside watching the random parade go by. It's once again overcast today, so I think I'll leave the brunt of my sightseeing until tomorrow. Still, as soon as my pants are dry (the laudry here is cheap but the dryer doesn't really live up to its name), I'll probably just head out walking in a random direction and see what I run into. I feel a little bit like canned meat after Ibiza.

Next stop is Granada, in southern Spain, where I should witness a distinct change in architecture and culture. Centuries of Moorish rule will definitely have left its mark, and nowhere so prominently as in Granada's Alhambra, a huge Moorish castle designed to mimic heaven on earth. Should be awesome! If I can get tickets, that is. Wish me luck!

C