This is part three of a three part entry. Get thee to Captain Kangaroo to find out how the story begins, or to Lounge Bars And Limosines for part 2.
This is the end.
But I digress. Above you can see how it was that I got so impressively sunburnt. I haven't been this badly burnt since I was 15 and on a family holiday to Florida.
The hotel, you see, has a jacuzzi on the roof. And it was here that I began my Saturday, with a bottle of Cava (to my uncultured pallette, indistinguishable from champagne if drunk in industrial quantities; no problem there then) and a selection of nuts. The view is fabulous.
It was a real wrench to leave the tub and start exploring. But leave I did, and explore I did. Barcelona is a wonderful city, not as 'unblemished' as the centre of Prague, but bigger, and with the most amazing little alleyways and hidden nooks tucked away behind vast wooden doors or through concealed archways.
I could have walked for miles. I stopped at a pavement cafe and watched a wedding; I saw the bride enter the church, and saw the happy couple leave 45 minutes later. I wanted to shout "Stop! Don't do it!" but I ordered a beer instead.
I poked about in palaces, I had my own little Siesta (I'd planned to finish off The Picture Of Dorian Gray, but lethargy overtook me and I slept) and I ate in an amazing restaurant. More amazing was where I stopped in on the way back at around 2; a palace hidden off an alley that bore more resemblance to a junk shop of curios than a bar. I sipped a fruit cocktail and tried to absorb the experience; I was aware I was into my last 24 hours.
And a big chunk of those hours were spent in the jacuzzi on Sunday with my now constant friend, Cava, for company. I did a bit more exploring, and gave money to street artists.
I bought CDs from buskers (one of which has a gloriously cheesy rendition of "Blue Spanish Eyes" that I wish I could share with you.) And then I was in the hotel bar, waiting for a taxi to take me back to the airport. With a final flourish of incompetence, the pretty waitress informed me that they'd run out of Tequila for the Margarita I'd ordered and would I mind Vodka instead? They still put salt around the glass, which created a taste sensation I shan't soon forget. I used the straw.
I was reassured to find that while Check-In was at Terminal B, the flight was to go from Terminal A, and I entrusted my body and soul to the tender care of today's Captain Kangaroo.
In clipped English tones the pilot annouced that there was a possibility of a northerly wind that might make the flight a little bumpy. Within minutes the plane lurched through the air like a drunk trying to find a vacant stall. Luggage fell from lockers, stewards and stewardesses swayed in the aisle before electing to strap themselves in and I took the opportunity to introduce myself to the nice lady sitting next to me.
I find imminent death is a great ice-breaker.
And there you have it. Thank you to A for all she did to make the stay memorable. You should take up Trip Organising as a profession.
You know, its just about exactly 6 months since The Ex left me. I have lived more and experienced more in these 6 months than in the last 14 years.
Can't wait to throw myself off a mountain at Whistler.
Night all.
