Santander

Our decision to sashe in Santander was left wholly in the hands of Ryanair; we found a v. cheap flight back to the mainland rain and gloom of London early on in our trip planning. After 22 days on the travel trot, I was just about ready to go home. So we endeavoured to take it very easy on our last two days of the trip.


We arrived into Santander after short pitstops in industrial Bilbao and a series of tiny Spanish villages. There was a brief wander around town before we headed to our accomodation, Hostal Vistapark in El Astillero, a fifteen minute feve ride from the centre of Santander. Vistapark was a beautiful, beautiful thing--nothing like our Barca experience, clean, quiet and friendly. Our hostellier, Maria, gave us a free upgrade so we ended our four week holiday in a room equipped with an en-suite bathroom and large flat screen television.

Maria also gave us a short verbal tour of the city. Santander is a bustling port town, home to Santander Bank and the capital of the Cantabria region of Spain. There's a beautiful castle called Palacio de la Magdalena, where the Spanish Royal family spends part of their summers. We took this information on board and then opted to spend our last days on the sandy, sandy beaches of El Sardinero, located a short taxi boat ride across the peninsula.
the castle and city from the beach peninsula



Whilst on the beach, the wind kicked up and we were fooled into believing it wasn't that hot. Natasha made the hideously painful, but still funny, mistake of taking off her sunglasses and falling asleep. She woke up an hour later with sunburned, swollen eyelids. And that's partially the reason we ended up in our hotel room eating ramen noodles cooked in the microwave watching spanish football on the tv. It's funny how, at the end, that's all we really wanted.

We spent much of our last day hiding from the sun, sitting on park benches reading books and connecting with people we'd met along the trip on facebook in Santander's only internet cafe. And that's really how it ended. Nothing exciting or glamorous, unless you counting trying to spend your last euros on spanish flavoured crisps in the airport as exciting.

We arrived back in London late. It was raining. As I waited for the 41 at Tottenham Hale, a man got in a fight with a bus driver and he drove his big red vehicle off, sans passengers. Home sweet home.

mas Barca (lots of Gaudi)

So Barcelona is the home of the Catalan language, the late Antoni Gaudi and all his architecture and some pretty wicked nights out. We went out in search of all things neat and exciting and were met with everything we could hope for. Despite the heat, hordes and hordes of people queued and waited for Barca's myriad tourist attractions. When faced with queues or the hostel, we opted for the queues.

Over the course of two days we managed to get very, very lost in the Barcelona metro system, which is a testament to the level of my lack of directionality. But we did manage to see lots of the city, including Gaudi, bypassing the wait time by just taking pictures outside:0)

Casa Mila in the Eixample District, about a five minute walk from our hostel
Casa Mila upon closer inspection. The queue to go up was roughly forty-five minutes long. Summer's a bad time to visit Barcelona
some more Gaudi architecture randomly dispersed in the city
La Seu, Barri Gotic cathedral, covered in scaffolding


Parc Guell
In order to get to Parc Guell, which Gaudi also designed and constructed between 1900-1914, you have to climb a series of 400 stairs, escalators and hills. There are signs pointing in contrary directions and lots of fat, heat exhausted tourists languishing along the way. We kept on going. First glimpses didn't disappoint:

And close up, it was like staring at Hansel and Gretel's house on crack.

It was unreal. The park was originally part of a housing site that was rather unsuccessful. Instead, Gaudi turned it into a park with panoramic views of Barcelona. There's a rather uninspiring museum mid-park, where very self-important eastern european tourists took rather ridiculous photos of themselves. Otherwise, there was a whole lot of picture taking and ice cream eating.











Sagrada Familia
So when we arrived, the Sagrada Familia was also covered in scaffolding, the queue was at least 1.5 hours long and the entrace fees were something like 14 euro. We opted out and instead circled the premises. Gaudi spent much of his time at the end of his life working on this project. When he died in 1926 (he was hit by a tram), only a quarter of the project was complete. Due to things like money and civil war, construction on the project ground to a halt for many years. The projected actual finish date now lies some time in 2026.







The End
We ended our stay in Barcelona with paella and tapas in the Barri Gotic, followed by some minor pub hopping.
the Irish Pub lured us in with tickets for free shots. upon closer inspection, said shots were 'sin alcohol', which I will also leave to your imagination to translate.

We woke up the next morning, donned our luggage and bid a two fingered adieu to Rambla y Catalunya Hostel. Tasha went in search of juice, and I had a sublimely transcendental moment in a tapas bar where I ordered espresso and a bocadillo, read El Pais and got mistaken for a local. The bus encounter was slightly better this time around--we each had our own row of seats in the eight-hour wind through the Basque Country in search of Santander.

Ending thoughts: Barcelona, sheer brilliance.

Barcelona (some art shots)

So we arrived in Barcelona tired, hungry and low on funds. We walked our way around the Placa Catalunya, up the Ramblas, down the Ramblas, around the Ramblas before finding the correct street and the wrongly labelled hostel. In a film, that would've been the cue for flashing lights and eerie music. And like the movies, we ignored the signs because we'd already paid for our beds, 75 euro for three nights, more than the hotel in Madrid.

We were greeted by a hostel where:
1. you pay 5 euro extra for a sheet that triples as a pillowcase and a blanket
2. the windows don't open, the fans don't work, and you wake up at 3am sticking to yourself in the 40c heat
3. nobody mans the front desk; instead the staff lock themselves in the kitchen and smoke pot while you bang on the door
waiting to check in
4. there's one toilet for thirty people
5. there's vomit in the bidet and a shower with super skinny shimmy space

On the second flight of stairs, after waiting 45 minutes to check in, I threw my first and only tantrum of the trip.

Seven hours later, after sleepless sleep, Natasha and I headed out for espresso and the sights. Barcelona redeemed itself.

in the gothic quarter

Cobi, the Barcelonan Olymic mascot

memorial to world war veterans
watch out for men in capes stealing children?

More photos of our 2.5 days in Barca to come.

¡Madrid! (parte dos)

Assorted photos from the open top bus tour and our .5 of a day wandering around a plaza whose name eludes me:
being tanned nerds on the bus tour




entrance to El Retiro

weeks after their world cup win, Spaniards were still very proud



the palacio real, which offers discounts for EU passport holders on tuesdays. bargain!

cathedral next to the palacio real

Madrid is famous for its tapestry-style tiles in front of the many tapas restaurants and bars. These bars happen to be v. close to the Plaza del Sol in the part of town we frequented late the night before, Plaza de Santa Ana:



located on Calle Antonio Lopez, just in case you wanted to find this venue of dance and devilish cocktails
tiles to the side of Villa Rosa

I'm still convinced Madrid is my future home. But after a whirlwind walking morning, we had to make our way to duke it out with Spanish citizens at the main bus station. We parted ways with Anita, who was taking the train, via Paris, back to London.

At the Intercambiador de Transporte on Avenida de America we were met with 'el caos', which i will leave to your own imagination to translate. The bus drivers were less than forthcoming and when one of them headed towards our bus, a gaggle of spaniards bottlenecked the front door. My American bus getting on skills came to good use, and we wedged ourselves in seats 54 and 55 with: two hangovers, a bag of spanish crisps and a family of what can only be described as common, thinly plucked eyebrowed, obese spanish mother and grandmother with their ADHD children. They kicked our seats. They farted and reclined. They spat their crumbs in a wide radius around us. I held my head and waited for it to be over.

Eight hours later, in Catalunya, it had only just begun...