So the first post was meant to be about my previous experiences, and why I chose to come backpacking before Turkey, however a stale re-telling of events that happened over a year ago can be typed out now, or in a months time, my recollections will remain the same. However what is happening in Barcelona right now will be forgotten in a few days, so it is important that I record this first, and save the 'introduction' for another time, maybe I can save it for useful procrastination when I'm meant to be revising.
The sum total of my packing amounted to two bags, my rucksack, a recent purchase that was to be the thing I carrried out and about with me, carrying the essentials to explore, and a suitcase that carried clothing, washkit, everything else I would need whilst backpacking, and then afterwards when I was at the university. My suitcase was full to bursting, the sad irony of this being the grotesque amount I had forgotten. I was trying to keep my rucksack as empty as possible, as it is very close to the maximum hand luggage dimnensions, and I wanted to be able to crush it down as much as possible. I had tried to secure my turkish housemate's bank details to set up a direct debit to pay the rent for our house before I left, however I did not get access to them before leaving, posing difficulty number one.
Hilariously, I've partly decided not to shave whilst backpacking, so I can arrive with a vague appretiation as to what its like to be as hairy as the natives. Also, I have talked myself into believing that beards are rugged and traveller-y. I was half way inclined to take photos of myself every day to see if there was any difference in my appearancce over my time backpacking. I decided against the daily photo because;
A) I'm lazy
B) If it doesn't work out, and I look like a rapist, I want to be able to expunge every ounce of evidence it had ever been a consideration.
On arriving in Barcelona, I found the hostel reasonably quickly, though not without realising I'm going to need to make sure I have a map to all future hostels before I go looking for them. The hostel looked like a real dive from outside, it was on a backroad parallel to a the main road through sants, which was dark and narrow, it had no shops, on the backs of buildings and the hostel door was locked shut. However inside seemed a bit better, the spanglish* signs in the toilets telling the men they probably weren't as well endowed as they thought they were. However it took me a long time to get to sleep, and then it took me a long time to get to sleep again when some germans came marching in (they're german, its marching) at 5:30am (5:30am?!?!). Leaving the hostel the morning after I realised the street was not as bad as I had thought it was when I arrived the night before, the sun adds a lot to places. Applying this logic to the fact that only certain nationalities seem to go backpacking provides a strong correllation, you will regularly see Canadians, Germans, all flavours of Scandinavians and British, However Americans are absent. Could this be connected to the fact that countries with more sun are more happy where they are, and less inclined to go visit other places?
That first day was a good one, Maria proved to be a great tour guide and we must have covered a good few miles in walking, going through la rambla, the old district and climbing Mont Juic to see the castle, and including the views, most of the rest of Spain. I arrived back at the hostel thoroughly knackered, had a shower and headed out to the travel-bar off La Rambla, though I knew the free dinner offer expired at 9pm, which I missed, I didn't realise this applied to the entire pub aswell, which I arrived to find had closed down at 9pm. I found another restaraunt/tapas/beer establishment and went in to burden them. I say burden as I took up the last table, was on my own and was evidently a poor travelling-type, as the staff that served me would well have been aware, this table could have gone to a couple, that may well have had more money and more inclination to spend time there, they likely weren't too wild about my patronage. I sat and disected a fish, drinking pints that would get me lynched if I served them in any of my previous jobs (head the width of a biro? This had a head the size of my... well... head!). When I arrived back at the hostel, I checked out the lounge area, being too late for the terrace roof (“sunny, funny, crazy! But only till 22:00”) it was empty, so I went and poked about on facebook trying to sort out a hostel in Messina. After an hour or two of trying, I gave up, it would appear Messina doesn't have hostels, or cheap trips to mount Etna, or anything catering to someone with an income lower than that of a Mafia Don at all.When I got up, after a long, pleasant and German-free sleep, I went to book my hostel in Palermo, as a girl was still asleep in the dorm and I couldn't pack my bags very quietly. The kyaking trip had been cancelled, as I was the only person interested in it. Instead I went mooching about whatever streets looked cool in barcelona and it proved a good way to spend a day, just wandering round, not really visiting any tourist destinations just wandering.
All in all this blog has taken far too much editting, I'm not sure I'm really cut out to be a writer, so I'm just going to thump out some different styles, see which one is the least painful to read.
*Spanglish- English the way the Spanish speak it
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