And so the Europe Backpacking begins...no destination, just drifting.
BARCELONA, ARRIVAL.
Mierda. In deep mierda here. And I'd only been in the country for an hour... By some miracle I find my hostel amidst the maze of unfamiliar streets and avenues. But something is not quite right. It seems there is no hostel. Mierda indeed. No lights. Some scaffolding. Not open. Not a soul.
My phone helpfully decides to cease working. I speak zero Spanish, even less Catalan. I have no map and no sense of direction, frankly not much sense at all. It is getting dark, and every person I have told about my trip has warned me of Barcelona's rich pickpocketing and mugging scene. I am naturally a walking target, a big backpack full of crap with legs, and so it seems, with no room for the night. Suddenly my sleeping options have become thinner than a tapas cracker. Somehow roughing it in the Parc or the Playa does not tempt me on this first excursion out of the UK in over 10 months.
'Hola! Hey!'. A few knocks and panicked utterances later, and a small, elderly woman opens the door. This is Kitty, and she plays no less than the starring role of guardian angel in tonight's drama. She explains in English that they have had problems with the building( or the neighbours, or something I can't recall), and the hostel is closed for repairs. She is just checking on the windows, but has been out all day and is on her way out again. Had I turned up a few minutes later, the Playa would have been my dorm room for the night.
I hadn't been on a plane in two years, but was glad to see I still got the ever-exciting euphoric rush of being confined in a flying rattly tin can hundreds of miles up in the air. With the added spice of wearing face mask this time, and the risky thrill of two sniffly, coughing scousers sat behind me.
The usual airport faff was non existent thanks to our friend CoVid. I waltzed through security, only to find that three quarters of the shops were closed, and my only sources of entertainment for the next few hours would be browsing at unaffordable liquors and perfumes and riding a fairground horse for children. I stuck to reading my book, Neither Here Nor There, Bill Bryson's very own collection of mishaps and travel disasters in Europe.
So, back to my new friend Kitty, who was quick to offer me some agua, and soon had reserved a bed in a new hostel for me, drawn me a map and even walked me to the metro station. A truly joyful and kind presence to introduce me to one of the friendliest cities I have been to. Few, I was spared from the raucous Barceloneta beach, at least for now.
I am writing this from a train ride in Southern France, gently rocked by the benevolent lull of the railroad. The next few days were nothing short of smashing. More tales from Catalonia to follow soon.
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