I am a lazy little wine soaked blob at this point....

Italy was lovely and lazy....I settled into a routine of sleeping until 11 or so, then it was off to meet my friend at the cafe near his work for a three course little lunch. After that a bit of e-mail, maybe a drink in Santo Spirito then to Prato for movies in Italian with English subtitles and some home cooked dinner...Rinse and repeat....I so needed that. Thus refreshed I caught the night train from Florence to Paris. However my Hitchcockian fantasy of speeding through the Alps soon dissolved into the reality of my 6 person sleeper. If the stank ass shoes parked under my coucher wasn't responsible for total fantasy dissolution, it was the near epic snoring coming from beneath me. Really...This guy deserved a medal. It was one of those deep glottal-stoppy snores that sound as if they emanate somewhere deep within the bowels of the earth. I slept so well. But I arrived in Paris in one piece, if a slightly sleepy piece and caught the metro to my hostel. I am now convinced I could navigate to the ends of the earth, if only it was laid out on a subway map. I set off to find the tourism office near my arrondisement, which of course meant I spent much of the day wandering in a lost, rain soaked stupor. I did stumble on the Pigalle district, home of the Moulin Rouge, which is basically an incongruous mix of hardcore sex shops and little tourist shops. I never have really needed a commemorative spoon on the same occasion I have been out looking for poppers and Vietnamese sex slings...But you never know I suppose. After that it was a stroll around the Rue de Rivoli and the Latin Quarter, with a brief break for multiple glasses of wine in a cafe of course. My days are becoming less and less ambitious by the day...This should bother me more....Oh...And I bought a hat. A cute hat...So I've got that going for me.

Ahhh..Italy

Mission accomplished....I have spent heaps of time sleeping, eaten a truly superior four cheese pizza (god how I love gorgonzola) drank some chianti (a welcome break from my near epic consumption of Rioja) and managed to sample a bit of Florentine nightlife. Near perfect weekend I reckon. I plan to spend the next few days in Florence, just wandering around, eating and searching for that damnable sweater (Benneton....I will find one at Benneton). After that its a night train to Paris, where I can hopefully pimp a newly acquired hostel insta-friend for free digs for a few nights, and then off to explore the rest of France for a week or two (damn dwindling travel time). My greatest hope for the trip is to resuscitate my rapidly fading Francais and stuff myself silly with cheese and wine. I have such lofty goals these days......

The Ultimullet....

Give you three guesses on how my last night was spent in Barcelona...Right, you only needed one , but whatever. We started at a rock bar that was playing a continuous loop of Skid Row tracks, a promising beginning in any country, and then ended up at some little bar where James (Mr. Rock from south England) knew the bartender, scoring us cheap and free drinks for the remainder of the evening. Sweet. Anthony, my hostel insta-friend and travel companion through much of Spain and Morocco, managed to make an appearance and a good time was had by all. Today was a bit of a loss, rainy with much time spent fruitlessly looking for a jumper, I mean sweater- damn brits- that was both warm and not idiotic looking and trying to master the intricacies of international parcel sending. However, I leave this evening on a flight to Pisa to see my friend from Florence, and I am so looking forward to as much nothing doing as possible. I want nothing more than to drink some wine, eat some pizza and spend masses of time in a warm clean bed that is not surrounded by 8 to 12 other human beings. I will return to Spain to see the north and basque county after a bit of time in France, but the siren call of homecooking and couch time is too strong to miss going back to Italy. So I take my leave of my Spanish friends but not without making time for a wee digression to discuss the ubiquity, no dare I say it, the complete and total domination of the mullet over the youth population of Spain. The boys have them , worn with oversize aviatoresque Eurotrash sunglasses, and the girls have them, but sported with tiny bangs and impossibly tight jeans and boots. I swear to god that it seems as if every human aged 16 to 23 has jumped on the mullet bandwagon. Color me culturally obtuse, but what the hell is going on here? The highlight of my fascination with this hairstyle that dares not speak its name was the spotting of the great white whale of mullets. Picture this....Male, late twenties, receding hairline in front, long curly, no...Wavy in the most feminine, undulating starlet hair, sense of the word, locks cascading to midback.....Its was, in the most true and complete sense of the word, the ultimullet.

One more ham and cheese sandwich and my head will explode

Barcelona is still wonderful.....I spent a bit of yesterday recuperating (so much for those saved up sleep points) and slowly getting into the day, coffee and yet another ham and cheese sandwich. Have I mentioned that the singular budget food option in Spain and Portugal is a ham and cheese sandwich (or ham and cheese on toast if you're feeling particularly spicy). I swear to god...if I eat one more of these my head will explode scanners style. Ubiquitous food options aside, I spent the rest of the day wandering aroung the montjuic district, a collection of gardens, museums and olympic facilities set high atop a hillside, and wandered around the fundacion Miro. The museum houses an incredible set of his work, from the early years up until his death. I think the work he did around the war years is my favorite. So much so that I think I may have to get a Miro star tattooed somewhere on my body in the near future. Anyways....after that it was back to the hostel to drink cheap wine with my new insta-hostel friends (a dready from Toronto stranded because of an unfortunate mugging, a substitute teacher and skipping coach from Leeds and a hard rock kid from south England). Hostels are wierd, wierd places. Today was spent perusing the works of Gaudi, especially Parc Guell and La Sagrada Falmilia. The man was insane, and I mean that in the most comlimentary sense of the word. The park includes the longest park bench ever made and enough undulating caverns and bridges to give the whole thing a cartoon on acid type of feel. This was built somewhere between 1900 and 1914. The chruch, on the other hand, is still not completed, having begun construction sometime in the late nineteenth century. Oh and there is 70 odd years left to go on the construction plan. It posesses the most intensely decorated facade ever, complemented by a ridicously cartoony and tall nave and central vaulting colored to look as if it could be worn to Studio 54 circa 1973. Oh and some of the spires are topped with baskets of mosaic fruit. This was a wierd, wierd cat....and clearly my new favorite architect.

Barcelona........

Alright...I feel human again. Some bad falafel and a grueling night train conspired to nearly kill me. I arrived in Barcelona early-ish yesterday morning, but ended up spending all day and night in bed. I shall spare you the gruesome details, but it literally felt if a small, heavily clawed being was trying to break free from the confines of my lower abdomen. However, this morning I awoke a new person. I set off down La Ramblas ,the main pedestrian thoroughfare of the old section of Barcelona and meandered my way through a few neighborhoods, ending up at the Picasso museum. It has an incredible variety of his work, from the very early figurative and pictorial work, to the final pieces of his life and career. It really was amazing to see the evolution of his art. Felling all Picasso-y I had lunch at 4 gats, an old hangout of the man himself. Slightly pricey, but as it was the first proper restaurant meal I 've had in days...Totally well appreciated. Then it was off to the gothic quarter to gawk at some architecture and check out the cathedral. Good touristy day all in all and I plan on using all of my saved up sleep points on a well deserved night out...Have I mentioned how much I love traveling.

We not in Europe any more toto

I successfully managed to meet up with my travel companions in Algecieras, Spain where we boarded a ferry for Tangier, Morocco. Two and a half hours later we are on African soil.....not bad. We caught the night train to Marrakesh, a tremendously comfortable 12 hour excursion, what with the leering men and the 30 Euros we saved by not paying for sleeper accomadations. At one point I had fallen asleep, all by my little own lonesome, only to awake with a man 12 inches from my face engaged in what could only be charitably described as the creepiest-death-sex stare ever. Luckily (or unluckily in a wanting no bodily harm to come to me kind of way) no one blinked an eye when confronted with my freaked out yelp. This was my one bit of sleep not interrupted by the train cops who would bang on the rack above our heads, point to our backpacks and bellow "no sleep" every hour on the hour. Seriously, they can have my grimy clothes, my rank undies and my few possesions....for the love of Allah I just want some sleep. We arrive in one piece and catch a petite taxi ( a tiny little hatchback, not to be confused witht the grande taxis, which are without fail mercedes) to our hotel. A triple, including breakfast and a hammam( described to me as a traditional bath where you are scrubbed by a tiny man with a big brush, which strangely enough we all declined) was less than 10 euros a night. I am beggining to like this country, creepy men aside. We set off to check out the center square with its bazaar. It is so unlike any place I have ever been before. Snake charmers, women in veils, stall of spices and live chickens, bangels and knockoff merchandise and cart after cart offering fresh squeezed orange juice. The markets are so mindbending it really ended up being our only activity for the day. The afternoon was spent drinking bad wine in a hotel bar and playing cards ( thanks to my family for the hearts training...I kicked ass). Crazily enough a heavily Islamic country doesn't have a lot of venues for drinking....go figure. At the hotel bar we met an American guy and a Moroccoan he had been hanging out with, and we all ate in the square at the little booths that pop up every evening. It is literally a little resteraunt city, errected every evening and gone by morning. After that they invitied us to an Irish pub, and as I had been to an Irish pub in every country I have visited so far, I figure why not. I can now say I have many answers to that deceptively simple question, "why not". Well firstly..the little Irish pub is in fact this bif Morrocon club type thing. And my travel companion and I are the ONLY women in it. Ok...no worries...there are only 15 or so people in the bar. We'll have a drink so as not ot offend our hosts and then go....Right// One beer later there are 80 or so men in the club...we are the only Americans and the only women. I'm sure we don't stick out that much. One more beer and I realize that there are women in the club to keep us company, only that their company is very much for sale. We are now not the only women in the bar, we are the only women that are not hookers. Right. Check please. Thus ends the Moroccan night life portion of our experiment.....

Who knew Granada is filled with hippies?

I am feeling human again thankfully. A night of sleep, and imagine this, no drinking has almost miraculous restorative effects...Granada is lovely and the Alhambra really is amazing. Its an old Moorish palace that is almost mindbending in its beauty....the architecture made me really happy...which is fortunate as I have decided to go to Morocco tomorrow. I found a travel companion with a penis and am feeling brave enough to check it out. I've been told repeatedly that they love round, fair blondes with blue eyes but will probably only hiss and catcall.. So apparently Morocco is just a really overgrown construction site...right.....I am very grateful to have a fake fiance for the trip. I spent the rest of the day puttering around and happily munching on dirt cheap super yummy falafel. Granada's Moorish influence is still alive and kicking which means bitchin Arabic food. Lucky me....for some reason that also mean tons of dreadies..they are seriously everywhere. I suppose its the lure of hash, but I honestly haven't had this much close proximity to hippies since Boulder. I went to the Mirador de San Nicolas to watch the sun set behind the Alhambra with the Sierra Nevada looming in the distance, which is as beautiful as it sounds. Just subtract the horrible bongo soundtrack and the all pervasive scent of patchouli and it would be heaven. Bloody hippies

Oh dear god, I am hungover mess

Seville is beautiful, from what I can determine through the pouring rain. I spent much of yesterday trying to snag a hostel bed, which due to half semester break for what seems like all American study abroad students, was consequently impossible. Luckily the hostel owners let me sleep on the couch in the TV room, and frankly it was cleaner, more comfortable and more private than much of the accomadation I have paid double for. My hostel insta-friend and I spent a bit of time slogging it out in the pouring rain to see the city's beautiful cathedral, but all was well and chummy and warm in the tapas cafe we sought refuge in after. It was run by the sweetest married couple who chatted us up and stuffed us full of Rioja and lovely warm tapas. A bit more sightseeing, a nap and shower and then out to find some evening entertainment (are you seeing a pattern here?). We had heard of some happening areas in town and set off to discover them. 1 hour in the pouring rain later and we were still walking in circles.....most frustrating (and damp) evening ever. After our sodden goose chase we returned to the neighborhood by our hostel and happily sat down to a few liquid consumables. Jump forward like 4 hours later and my companion asks what time i think it is....i say 3...possibly. Wrong. Try 5:45. Shit. We stumble back to the hostel, me to my comfy little couch. Today I have spent much of the day trying to aquire the will to catch my bus to Granada. For some reason public transportation with a rancid hangover doesn't hold much appeal, go figure. So while last night may have been a bit of a stupid endevour, I now know the most important phrase in all of Spanish. Vodka con zumo de l'arranha por favore. Vodka and orange juice please.....

Let's do the accomadations shuffle again

I left Lagos in the pouring rain, only to reach Seville in the pouring rain. I have taken the same bus as two of my fellow Rising Cockers (god that needs to be the name of a sports team) and we set off to find a place to sleep. One of my compatriots has wisely booked ahead, but I, of course am travelling on faith and the seat of my pants. We arrive to find that there is one bed. One bed, two people. Right. The other bedless fellow is a slightly, okay very, anxious middle aged man who has been worrying about this whole homeless thing for much of the night and day at this point. I offer him the bed, confident that I can scam someplace else to sleep, as the whole thing seems to be making him supremely nervous. He defers and it goes to the coin toss. As head and tails is a little confusing on the euro, I go with "little man side". Sweet. I love the little man. I drop off my bags and, gracious even in victory, offer to walk the other rising cocker (see I can't stop saying it) to his pension on the other side of town. After dropping him off at this sad little pension (thank you, thank you little man) and eating yet another ham and cheese toast, its off for a bit of exploring and grocery store locating. One bottle of wine, a bit of cheese and , yes you guessed it, ham later and I'm off to try and find some evening activites. I am accompinied by a hostel insta-friend and his hostel insta friend and set down for some wine and tapas. Oh, some friendly advice for ya, patatas con aoli is not fries with a bit of mayo, as i had supposed, but rather a giant plate of the gloppiest potato salad ever created. I mean I have a serious mayo fixation, but this is even a bit much, even for me. It is less a salad than a condiment. After our diasatorous culinary experiment we end up in a strange little salsa club filled with teenagers. They may be my little brothers age...but holy shit can they cut a rug. Add in some vodka and fanta, which is always what arrives when you ask for vodka orange and the night seems to be picking up. One unscroupulous taxi driver and an uneccesary round the city tour later and we find our self at this little flamenco club stuffed with locals. The most interesting sight of the evening: a group of very straight laced, and straight I'm assuming, middle aged men dancing flamenco together. No one takes notice, it just seems like an average evening out after work for them all. I'm thinking this would probably not be kosher in much of middle america, but that's just a guess.

Sand Fleas are gross

As you may have gathered, I have picked up a few traveling mates in my short time in Portugal, Alice and Frosty, the Aussies and Jose, the birthday boy. We all headed to Lagos, a very chill little beach town on the southern coast of Portugal, with a very popular hostel called the rising cock, charming eh? We arrived late in the evening only to begin drinking pretty much immediately. Aparently the cock is a bit of a party hostel and as far as I can figure the days are spent in either sun-filled sloth on the beach or, in case of a rain, which by the way has been persistently stalking me around Portugal, movies on the giant flat screen in the common room to be followed by general drunken debauchery at the 3 monkeys bar, conviently located mere steps away from the hostel. Well sauced within literally minutes of our arrival, we spend the next day lounged on the beach drinking Calimocho, a spanish drink of coca cola and red wine. Seriously, it's way better than it sounds. Apart from the sand fleas that are making the sand shudder like its breathing and a poor albatross that decided to commit half succsessfull kamikaze suicide by flying headlong into a wall and then limping about all gimped up without succesfully managing to die, it's a perfectly lovely day. Well maybe slightly marred by the fact that I have forgotten my swimsuit at my friend's house in Italy, so I spend the day chilling in a tank top and my underwear- trust me it's a real flattering look. Though it is nice to swim in the ocean, in basically November, without fear of hypothermia. After some red wine fueled soul searching conversations (what am I, a college freshman?) we head back to the hostel to pre-drink and improvise costumes before heading out to drink some more at the Halloween party the bar is having. Let's just say a backpacker cannot come up with much ( i have like 4 shirts...what the hell am i gonna wear for a costume) so i went with a slightly trashy play on words, that was so wortht it for the 4 free shots it got me. I am one of the tamer drinkers at the hostel, imagine that, so much so that some kids end up staying on like three weeks , operating in some sort of sun and alcohol induced fog. Halloween is a riotous blur as always and literally the whole hostel spends the next day recooperating on the couch watching terrible American comedies. The owners' mother, an incredibly sweet portugese (by way of Connecticut, long story) woman who insists everyone call her mama, takes pity on our booze addled bodies and decides a giant pot of homemade soup is in order. I can see why people get stuck here