THIRTEEN AND ONE SPANISH NIGHTS

DAY 1 SITGES 

Part I
I Get There

I fly to Spain for the first time on Air France. I have a short layover in Paris and then on to Barcelona. My seat is next to a very nice older French couple. Before we even take off, they are trying to convince me to cancel my Spain trip and stay in France. 

“It is a much nicer country,” the man informs me.

“Uh, I would, but I am meeting a friend in Spain…so, you know.” I smile apologetically at them.

“Well you at least must drink champagne with us on the flight! Then you can make your decision.” The woman says.

I really don't even like champagne, but I don't want to come off as being too disagreeable so I have a glass.  

Three glasses of champagne later we are old, dear friends. I am informed that I am their favorite passenger they have ever sat next to on a flight, and am invited to stay in their beautiful chateau in the French countryside anytime I want. Happily buzzed on champagne, I have to agree with them. I am a great seat mate, and I’m sure I would be a most charming guest at their French chateau.
I am basking in our mutual admiration of how fabulous and fun I am when the woman starts telling a story about how the last time she was on a plane she had the great misfortune to be sitting next to a terrorist. It was terribly frightful she tells me.
“How did you know he was a terrorist?” I ask her.
 “He had a turban on!” she whispers dramatically.
I am tempted to inform her how I am part Middle Eastern myself and ask her if she is frightened of me, but I am concerned about losing my standing invitation to their chateau.
“And he kept looking at the safety card!” she exclaims.
That gives me pause for a second. It is true that no one ever actually looks at the safety card. I still think she is being racist though and I want to tell her so, but I decide to wait until after I cash in my stay at the chateau.
Two additional glasses of champagne and absolutely no sleep later we arrive in Paris where we say our good-byes. After numerous clingy hugs from them, and a pounding headache from the champagne, I start to think maybe that chateau stay doesn't sound so great after all. I make my escape and continue on to Barcelona.

My friend Jess was scheduled to arrive on a different flight hours earlier. We set a plan to meet in Sitges, a beach side town about 20 miles south of Barcelona. There is a bus that goes direct from the airport to Sitges. I am a little worried about finding it because my Spanish is pretty limited, but without too much trouble I end up underneath the airport and on the correct bus. I feel proud of myself for finding the bus with so much ease and wonder if it was as easy for Jess. I decide it is highly doubtful.  

The ride is beautiful, with gorgeous views of the glittering Mediterranean. There is a nice family on the bus who speak some English and inform me which stop to get off at. 

I am dropped in the center of the town, at a beautiful cobblestone courtyard. I have a little map of Sitges in my Lonely Planet book that shows where our hotel is. The town is really small so I don’t anticipate it being too hard to find.

The streets are narrow and lined with shops and restaurants on both sides, people spill out of the cafes onto the sidewalks, flowers cascade out of colorful pots on the upper story windows, and scooters zip by every which way. It looks exactly the way I've always imagined a European street looking. The problem is the streets randomly change names and directions, making the map nearly impossible to follow.

No matter how carefully I try I keep going in a circle. I stop and ask several people directions but no one speaks any English and can't understand my awful attempts at Spanish. At first I enjoy wandering the streets, but after about half an hour, I am just pissed. And really hungry.
I end up in a shady little park and sit wearily down next to an old woman on a bench. She notices me turning my map every which way trying to figure out where I am going wrong, or even where the hell the park was located on it. She asks me something in rapid Spanish. I shook my head sadly at her and told her ‘no comprende Espanol’. Undeterred, she grabs the book out of my hand and begins pointing in different directions, pointing at the map, and then started talking for close to 20 minutes. After the first few tries of telling her I had no clue what she was saying, I gave up and just listened. She would become extremely animated at points and grab my arm, then sink back into contemplative silence. She finally started chuckling and patting my knee, then shook her head and walked away. I will forever wonder what in the world she was saying to me.

I get up from the bench and wander into a nice hotel, where luckily the concierge speaks enough English to get me a better map and highlight the route I need to follow. She tells me that the streets are very confusing here so it will be difficult to find. Yep, I already figured that much out for myself. 

Even with the map and the highlighted route it still takes me another 20 minutes to find the tiny side street our bed and breakfast is located on. It turns out to be in this incredible old building, full of beautiful blue pottery, lush green plants, cool stone statues, and twisting staircases. I am told my friend has already arrived and am shown to our room, which is surprisingly large and well furnished.

My friend Jess greets me excitedly. She has been here for hours, already explored the town and the beach, and was starting to get worried about me.

“How the hell did you find the hotel?” I demand. I feel unreasonably upset at the idea that she found it easier than I did. 

Turns out she that she had someone show her exactly where it was, they walked her all the way to the front door. I feel much better about myself after I hear this.

Even though neither of us have slept in over 24 hours, we are eager to head out and hit the town for drinks and dinner. We take showers and get ready.

Part II

Man Land 

Jess and I choose a tiny restaurant right next to the ocean, and sit at an outside table. The air is warm and salty and feels incredible. We order local beers and a plate of paella. I love paella and it is one of the foods I am most excited to try here in Spain. Unfortunately, it turns out to be really disappointing Although the shellfish in it is fresh, the dish itself is really bland. It appears to have no seasoning or spice to it, and when I ask for hot sauce I am horrified to discover they don't have any. The beer, thank god, is delicious and refreshing.

The only other people in the restaurant are three guys at the table next to us. As soon as they hear us speaking English they are full of questions about where we are from and what we are doing here. They are from Germany and are in Sitges to test out high end luxury cars on a nearby race track. They tell us they are engineers who travel the world to see how the cars perform in different environments. Jess and I look at each other doubtfully. No way this is an actual job. But if it is...damn, these guys hit the jackpot of dream jobs. 

We tell them we are from America. They are really surprised that we would end up here in Sitges, and keep asking how we picked it. We explain it is a beach town near Barcelona, and that we wanted to spend our first night as close to the water as possible. They keep looking at us funny, and asking questions about how Jess and I know each other, and how good of friends we are. A few beers later we find out why.

Apparently Sitges is a well known gay resort town (well known to everyone but us that is) and it is very unusual for two straight girls to visit it. 

I am too excited to even bother explaining that we are not gay. I can't believe our luck to have ended up in a gay resort town. As any girl knows some of the most fun nights of your life are spent with gay guys, especially if you are in vacation mode, and most especially when dancing is involved. 

The German guys offer to show us to where all the clubs are located. As we walk down the pedestrians only main street I notice chairs full of men lining both sides of the road. There aren’t any tables, just chairs, all facing the street. As we walk by the men shout out things at us in Spanish. I start waving and smiling at the men, but the German guys tell me they are shouting disapproving comments at us. Apparently they are not happy the German guys are with Jess and I. I've never been yelled at by a gay man before and feel devastated by it.
No matter I think, soon we will be dancing the night away with hundreds of them who are guaranteed to love us. We walk up to the first club we come to. The German guys stroll right in, but Jess and I are stopped at the door. The bouncer points to a sign in the window. It says ‘Men Only’. I peek over his shoulder and see masses of shirtless men drinking and dancing to pulsating house music. I want in there! He quickly closes the door in my face before I can see any more.
We walk back onto the street, feeling utterly defeated. I look at a couple of the neighboring clubs and see that they all sport similar 'Men Only' signs.

I try desperately to think of a solution. I have really broad shoulders for a girl, plus big hands and feet and a large head. I am fairly sure I can pass myself off for a man. Jess, on the other hand, is all of five feet tall and about as feminine as you can get. No way am I going to pull her off as a man. Just as I am debating leaving her on the street, the Germans come back out.

“What happened?” one of them asks.

I point sadly to the sign.We walk dejectedly by rows of clubs pumping out inviting dance music. At the very end of the street is a dirty little bar with some locals in it. They allow us in, and we drown our sorrows in beers. I am completely crushed that European gay men don't love me the way American gay men do, but I console myself with the fact that I wasn't really given a proper chance to display my many charms to them. If I had it is only natural they would have been obsessed with me. I feel better and order my next beer with a smile on my face.

DAY 2 SITGES AND VALENCIA 

Part I
The First Crane Sighting

Surprisingly, we both wake up early. We plan on spending the first part of the day by the beach and then take a bus south to Valencia. Our breakfast is served outside in a beautiful garden. There is a variety of fresh fruit, juices, meats and cheeses, and an assortment of cereal and granola.

After eating our fill we head down to the beach. The water is a beautiful sparkling blue, and there are sandy coves interspersed between rocky cliffs. The beach we choose has an old church behind it that makes for an incredibly cool background. The only thing messing up the view is a huge construction crane sticking out from the church. We see these cranes everywhere throughout our entire trip in Spain. I never figure out why, and never see any actual construction going on, just endless cranes.

Once it hits midday we head towards the train station. We stop in a tiny little café that is simply a narrow hallway with a counter at the end and eat the most delicious vegetable wrap and bagel with hummus and cucumber.

To get to Valencia, we have to take a train back to Barcelona, and then hop on a bus. The train ride from Sitges to Barcelona goes smoothly, but the subway ride we need to take from the train station to the bus station proves enormously difficult. We spend almost an hour in the subway station, where we keep buying the wrong tickets, ending up at the wrong platforms, and never being able to get through the turnstiles we need to. By the time we finally make it to the bus we are hot, tired, and extremely frustrated.

The bus ride down takes about two hours. The scenery is shockingly similar to Southern California. The freeways are the same, the bushes of oleander along the center dividers are the same, and even the glimpses of beach and ocean are the same. The only difference is the multitude of useless cranes we pass.

Jess and I are on a very tight budget, so we are staying in hostels for most of the trip. I have never actually stayed in a hostel before and am curious about what we are going to find. The hostel in Valencia turns out to be bright, loud, and incredibly hip. No one in the place looks like they are any older than their early 20s. We feel slightly out of place as we head upstairs to our room. The room is only just big enough to fit a bunk bed, but it is clean and cheap. We dump our stuff in the room and head straight to dinner.

Part II
Bring On The Wine!

Jess and I walk to the main center of Valencia, which is absolutely packed full of people. The center of the city is a huge square lined with bars, restaurants, and shops, with an enormous old church at one end and an impressive fountain in the middle. This main square leads on to more squares, all of which seem to have a beautiful fountain and an old church. We wander around for awhile, till we come across a tiny restaurant we had read about. The restaurant is a small, rather smoky room located at the top of a steep staircase.

We have yet to try any Spanish wine and are very eager to do so. The cheapest we can find on the wine list is 12 euros, which comes to about 20 US dollars. We are bummed because this is way more than we can afford for a glass of wine. We decide to splurge on one glass to split and then find a bar later that serves cheaper options.

The waitress brings out a bottle of the wine we ordered and begins to open it for us. We are immediately concerned. If one glass costs 20 bucks the bottle is going to blow our budget for the whole trip.

“Shit, how do say glass in Spanish?” I ask Jess frantically.

We both start shouting ‘no’ at the waitress. I motion to my wine glass and say uno in a sophisticated Spanish accent while holding up one finger.

She looks confused and shakes her head at us. She lifts the bottle and somehow communicates to us that it is the whole bottle or nothing by using just her eyebrows.

My eyes meet Jess’s across the table as something slowly begins to dawn on us. What if it is 12 euros for the entire bottle?

Jess points to the price in the wine list and then to the bottle the waitress is holding to confirm. She nods at us in exasperation. We break out into huge grins and motion her to start pouring.

“Holy crap,” I say ecstatically. “Maybe we can even get two bottles!”

The wine is a Rioja blend of Tempranillo and Grenache and is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted. We are brought out a little dish of free olives and I am in heaven.

We order an assortment of meats, cheeses, and bread to start with. The cheese is an incredible sheep manchego and the meats are perfectly cured and salted. For our main course we order a local pork and a local fish, but these also come out dried and on pieces of bread, which we discover as the trip goes on is typical of Spanish cuisine. Dessert is the worst cheesecake either of us has ever had.

After dinner we head out to some bars and continue drinking our fill of the delicious, cheap Spanish wine. The night is still warm when we finally walk through the deserted streets back to our hostel. The giant fountains and churches are eerily haunting in the silent moonlight, and the image of them sticks with me as I fall soundly asleep in the bottom bunk.

DAY 3 VALENCIA AND ALICANTE

Part I
Get Out!  

I wake up to a woman standing over me with a stack of towels in her hand, asking me something in Spanish. I squint at her in confusion.

“Huh?” I mumble.

She repeats the question and I catch the words uno mas. I slowly do the translation in my head and come to the conclusion that she is offering me a fresh towel. This is my first time staying in a hostel, and I have to admit I was not expecting this level of personal service.

“No gracias mas towels” I murmur sweetly and fall soundly back asleep.

“Senorita!” she says loudly and shakes my shoulder. 

Seriously?
“No mas towels!!!” I shout firmly and roll over, pulling the sheet over my head.

She leaves the room but is back a minute later with a clipboard.

“English?” she asks me.

I nod my aching head.

“Are you staying one more night?” she reads slowly off the clipboard.

 I shake my head no.

“Check out is 11.” she reads then gives me a meaningful stare. “It is now 2.”

Crap.

“I'm sorry!” I tell her sincerely. “We over slept.”
I launch into a detailed explanation about jet lag and how long our flights were and how much wine we drank and how little sleep we have had. She is unmoved.

“Out now!” she orders me. I can tell she is holding a bit of a grudge from earlier.

“Okay, okay. Un momento.”

She stands at the door with her arms crossed and gives me one more angry stare.

“Quick” she tells me as she closes the door.

I suddenly realize that I have not heard one single peep out of Jess this entire time.

“Jess?” I look up at the top bunk. “Jess?” No movement.

“Jess!!!” I shout while shaking her. Nothing. She is totally limp.

Holy shit, she is dead.

“JESS! JESS!” I scream frantically, in a full panic by this time.

The door opens again. “You leave now!” the woman yells. I am about to tell her that we have a dead body on our hands, when Jess sits up.

She looks mildly alarmed to find a strange woman in our room. “Who the hell is this?” she asks me.

“You’re alive!” I am flooded with relief.

She stares at me with furrowed eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t I be alive?” she demands. “And why is this woman in our room?”

“We overslept.” I explain. “Check out was a few hours ago. She's kicking us out.”

We quickly get dressed and pack up our stuff. It is not the best way to wake up, especially when it is after a long night of drinking.

Once we are safely out of the hostel and eating breakfast and drinking espresso we are able to have a good laugh over it. We decide to do a little more exploring of Valencia, then take a bus south down the coast to Alicante for the night.

We wander around the squares again and admire the churches and the fountains and the leafy streets in the daylight. We end up in a huge market called Mercado Central (most big cities in Spain have one) that is in a gorgeous old warehouse. The ceiling is made entirely of skylights, so the market is bright and open. We spend some time looking at all the different stalls. The produce is so beautiful it looks fake, and some of the stalls have fish so fresh they are literally still flopping around in the beds of ice. There are stalls selling dozens of different types of snails (intriguing), some selling whole pig’s heads (awesome), and one that sells horse meat (disgusting).

After we get our fill of the market we hop on a local bus to take us to the main bus station, where we will continue on to Alicante. Sitting across from us on the bus are an older couple. The man is tiny and inconspicuous, but the woman is large and dressed in bright clothes, with her hair dyed a jarring shade of orange. She begins making small talk with Jess and I, telling us she was born and raised in Spain but now lives in England with her husband. She points to the tiny man next to her and he meekly nods his head. She then begins telling us how everything we are doing is wrong. Jess's backpack is just screaming to be robbed, my shorts are too short and apparently screaming 'attack me'. She motions to her huge fanny pack and tells us we need to get one of them. It is the only way to travel safely, she claims. I bite my tongue to keep from telling her that I would rather die then ever wear a fanny pack because it makes you look like a serious jackass. She proceeds to tell us that if we don't have a fanny pack the only other suitable option is to store all of our stuff down our pants. She shoves her own hand repeatedly down her pants to demonstrate. Jess and I stare on in horror.
"You have to put everything down there!" she instructs us. "Passport, money, hotel key, any valuables."
What kind of fucking underwear does this woman think I have on, I wonder.
We are relieved when we finally arrive at the bus station and rush off to find our bus to Alicante.
"Down your pants girls!" she hollers after us. I sneak a glance back and see she is shoving her own hand firmly down her pants as she shouts this.
We grab some snacks and settle into our seats on the bus, still somewhat disturbed. It is Jess's turn to sit by the window and she is making herself comfortable as I start reading my book.
I look up when I hear a yelp of joy. There is the woman with her silent husband in tow.
 "I can't believe we are on the same bus!" she says excitedly as her husband takes the window seat and she plops down in the aisle seat directly across from me. "Oh look your friend is sleeping. So cute!"
I glance over and see Jess determinedly feigning sleep. You little bitch I think, as the woman launches into a description of her entire trip and everything she has packed for it. This is going to be a god damn long two hours.

Part II
The Russians Have Arrived

We get the last room in this amazing little hostel in old town Alicante. The woman who runs it greets us at the front porch with her new grand baby in her arms. She is charming and helpful and the hostel is bright and clean and full of beautiful artwork. A tiny painting at the front is even rumored to be a real Dali (not that I would know what a real Dali looked like even if walked up and slapped me in the face.)

We are starving so eat at one of the first restaurants we see, which turns out to be a mistake. We buy the cheapest bottle of red on the list, another Rioja blend, which again doesn’t disappoint. What sucks is the food. We let the waiter choose for us and are presented with more items of food placed on pieces of bread. Dried meats, dried fish, and some sort of pate. I am starting to get incredibly sick of bread with dried shit on it. Jess loves bread, and if she doesn’t like what’s on it, she just scrapes it off and eats the bread plain. I, however, like a lot of sauce and spice on anything and everything I eat and am finding the lack of both very disconcerting. We get grilled baby artichokes, which I am excited for until I taste one. They are so lightly grilled that is basically like eating a raw artichoke…which I would not recommend anyone ever doing.

It is only about 830 at night at this time, and people in Spain don’t really start eating dinner until 10, so we are one of only two tables in the restaurant. The other table consists of two middle aged men in suits, who at one point randomly decide to get up and sit down at our table with us. Jess and I look at each other uncertainly. Maybe it is normal to do this here?

They tell us they are on business from Russia. They tell us entertaining stories about Russia and about all the places they travel on business. They are both married, and at first are respectful, but after more wine they start to drop hints to Jess and I that they are more than open to romance while on business trips. We politely decline their offer to go out for more drinks and get the hell away from them.

Jess and I head out to explore the town. In Alicante, all the restaurants put their chairs out in the narrow streets. There are no sidewalks and the streets are literally filled with chairs and tables and people eating and drinking. The vibe is very festive. The only problem is Alicante is small and it seems like every time we turn a corner we run into the Russians. Each time they see us they shout in joy and ask us to drink with them. It becomes almost a game of hide and seek as we try to avoid them.

After a couple hours of walking and more wine I am starving again, and we find this great little Italian restaurant where we happily fill up on salad and pasta. And more wine.

We are significantly buzzed as we head back out into the crowded streets and run smack into a table where the Russians are drinking Sangria.

“Girls!” they say excitedly, “Have Sangria with us!”  They stand up and pull the extra chairs at the table out for us.

“Run” Jess whispers in my ear.

“But they already saw us” I tell her as she darts off.

Giggling I follow her as the men shout after us.

Even though the streets and the bars are packed with people we feel left out. Everyone is chatting loudly and excitedly in Spanish, and the language barrier proves too great for us to break. I feel momentarily lonely as we walk back to our hostel, but am somewhat comforted by the fact that we already have our very own Russian stalkers. It is hard to feel lonely for too long when you are busy avoiding Russians.

DAY 4 ALICANTE AND GRANADA

Part I
Castle in the Sky

Jess and I wake up, eat what is about to become our standard breakfast of toast and butter, and head straight to the beach. I am a little disappointed at first because the beach looks so much like a Californian beach. There is nothing wrong with the beaches in California, but I really wanted the Mediterranean to be as different and exotic as I had imagined it. I swim out into it as far as I can go. When I turn and look back towards shore I notice a huge, crumbling old castle on a hill overlooking the beach. Now there is something you definitely would not see in California. I feel much better and float contently on my back while staring at the castle.

After a few hours on the beach we head back into town for lunch. Just as we are walking off the sand it starts unexpectedly pouring rain. We duck into a nearby restaurant.

The place is completely deserted. The walls are painted in bright colors, with what appears to be a Mexican Day of the Dead theme. There are dancing skeletons and spiders painted across the walls, skulls hanging from the ceiling, and death masks mounted everywhere.

A guy comes out of a back room and reluctantly agrees to serve us. We sit near the door and watch the pouring rain as we enjoy the spooky atmosphere of the place, eat a bizarre noodle dish, and enjoy our first taste of white Spanish wine.

We decide to continue on our way to Granada after lunch, and head to the bus station for the four hour journey. 

Part II
I Get Shirted

We find a charming little hostel in Granada, where the entire front façade is covered in cheerfully painted plates, and the inside is filled with plants and bright colors.

We dump our luggage in our room and head straight for dinner. We come across a small restaurant that resembles an old fashioned butcher shop. There are huge hunks of dried meat hanging from the ceiling and men thinly slicing assortments of meats and cheeses and arranging them on big blocks of wood.

Jess and I take a seat at the bar and are immediately given a bowl of olives. In the short amount of time I have been in Spain, I’ve become hopelessly addicted to these olives. They are free and absolutely incredible, and you are instantly given a bowl in almost every bar and restaurant. We order a cheap bottle of wine and then start looking through the menu. One of the men sets down a block of wood covered in meats, cheeses, and bread in front of us. I have no idea if I somehow accidentally ordered this, or if it is meant for someone else or what, but at this point I don’t give a shit. I am starving and it looks amazing. As I am stuffing my face, Jess asks the guy sitting next to us why we were given the plate of meats and cheeses. He explains that in Granada they still honor the old tradition of giving you a free tapa when you order a drink.

“Free?” I ask through a mouth full of bread. “Jackpot” I whisper to Jess. I am already picturing the possibilities. Will they bring me something every time I order a drink or just the first time? Will it always be something different? I seriously hope so!

We spend a few hours in the noisy, busy restaurant. It is an authentically local place and we soak it up.

To my disappointment we don't get any more free tapas, so we order what we think is a salad and a pork dish. What we get is an enormous plate of nothing but cold roasted red bell peppers and more dried meat. I try to make the best of it.
I had read about a bar that was supposed to be a lot of fun near our hostel, so we set out to find it after dinner. We end up hopelessly lost when a tall skinny guy darts past us. He is dressed impossibly preppy, with a sweater tied around his shoulders. On a whim we decide to follow him.

Since I don’t have any professional training in the art of stealthly tailing someone he quickly discovers what we are doing. We awkwardly explain that we are looking for a certain bar and are lost. By a remarkable coincidence he is meeting his friend at that very bar.

The bar turns out to be an American version of an Irish pub…in the middle of Spain. We walk in and U2 is blaring and there are posters for Guinness and Jameson on all the walls and shamrocks hanging from the ceiling. What makes it even weirder is that the majority of people in the bar, including the guys we are with, are from Syria.

We end up having a great time drinking and singing along to the music we grew up with. I impress the guys with my knowledge of Syrian food (I am part Syrian, and learned how to cook most of their dishes from my grandma) As the night comes to an end we decline their offer to come back to their apartment and smoke a hookah pipe and head back to our hostel instead.

As we are walking down a side street we see a group of people ahead of us walk into a secret door in a big dark building. Once the door opens there is a faint sound of club music that drifts out. I really have to pee so I grab Jess and slip in the door with the people.

We are in a dark, small room. It takes my eyes a second to adjust and then I see there are about 15 people in the room with us. Everyone appears to be waiting for something. The room vibrates with the sound of a DJ somewhere close by.

One of the guys in the room sees me and shouts something in Spanish. Before I can react he has put his shirt completely over my head. I have absolutely no idea what is going on as I am engulfed in cologne and chest hair. He bounces around a bit with me still in his shirt and I begin to be concerned that I am about to be kidnapped. I wonder if Jess is in someone’s shirt too and feel bad for dragging her in here.

Suddenly he releases me, laughs loudly, and walks away. Jess is staring at me in fascination.

“What the fuck just happened?” I ask her. She shrugs her shoulders.

“Your hair is all messed up” she informs me.

I quickly try to smooth it down as a door opens in the far corner of the room. We follow the people through it and end up smack in the middle of a dance club. As we dance the rest of night away I feel incredibly cool about myself for having discovered this secret place, and think how lucky Jess is to be traveling with me. When I tell her so she lets me know I have a chest hair stuck to my forehead. Awesome.

DAY 5 GRANADA AND MALAGA

Part I
We’ve Got a Bleeder!

One of the main reasons we chose to stop in Granada was to visit the Alhambra. We were told you have to get there early to make sure you get a ticket to see the whole place, so we had planned to make an early start of things. Not going to bed until 5 in the morning kind of put a wrench in those plans.

I stumble out of bed around 11 and hop in the shower. I can hear Jess getting up and moving around.

“Dayna?” she calls out suddenly. “Are you bleeding? Please tell me you are bleeding!!!”

The only way this statement would make sense is if Jess was a guy I was sleeping with and we had a scare. Since this is not the case I feel baffled.

“What do you mean???” I shout.

She violently pulls back the shower curtain and demands I spin in a circle and show her the bottom of both my feet. I feel somewhat violated, but she looks so fierce I don't dare argue.

“God damn it! You aren’t bleeding.” She mutters. “Check me! Am I bleeding anywhere?”

“What the hell is going on?” I check her over. “No blood on you.”

“Crap!” She looks like she is about to start hyperventilating. She pauses dramatically.“There is blood all over our room.”

I walk out of the bathroom and find what looks like relatively fresh drops of glistening red blood all over the floor, on the wall and on the sheets.  It must be from one of us, I think. I do another more careful search of us both, but neither of us has so much as a scratch anywhere on our body.

“What the fuck happened in here?” Jess whispers.

I look closely at the sheets, the blood is spread everywhere in weird blotches, even on the comforter. I pick up one of the pillows and about 7 bugs go running in every direction. My stomach lurches and I hear Jess start to dry heave behind me. 

I instantly feel dirty everywhere and cannot get out of the room fast enough. We throw our shit in our suitcase and hightail it out, not even eating our free breakfast of toast and butter.

We are still traumatized by the time we finally make it to the Alhambra. Not surprisingly we are told that all the tickets for the day have sold out. We are only able to wander around the outside of the building and in some of the gardens. The place is huge and the red tinged walls and soothing gardens finally start to relax us. We decide we still want to get the hell out of Granada though. We get on a bus headed towards the ocean, with the absolutely unnerving feeling of having bugs and someone else’s blood all over us. 

Part II
We Aren’t In Kansas Anymore

Jess and I decide to go to Malaga, a beachside town in the south of Spain that we heard was beautiful. The bus ride there is quick and painless, but we have trouble finding a hostel once we arrive. We end up having to stay in a large fancy hotel that is out of our budget, but feels incredibly luxurious, especially after our experience this morning. The room is huge with two queen size beds and a completely modern bathroom.

We head to the rooftop bar and pool and breathe a sigh of relief. This is what vacation should be. Poolside cocktails on the roof, while watching the sun set over the ocean. Not bugs and blood and cheap ass toast and butter.

We decide to pretend like we have money for just this one night of the trip. We will go out to a nice dinner, ,aybe even order the second or third cheapest wine on the list instead of the very cheapest.

We set out to find a nice restaurant with directions from the concierge and enter a different world. The main streets of Malaga appear to be made entirely out of marble, and are lined on all sides with expensive designer shops. Everything is pristinely clean and people are dressed up fancier than I have ever seen anyone dress. The men are in three piece suits, some with top hats, and the women are dressed as if they were going to the opera and are covered in sparkling jewels. It is a weeknight and not even entirely dark out, so these outfits seem all the more bizarre to us.

We wonder if there was some big event happening, maybe there actually was an opera, or a huge wedding just got out. But the further along we go, the more we realize these people are just walking, shopping, and stopping for food and drinks.

“Is this how people dress here?” I ask incredulously. “Just to go outside? Seriously, who are these people??”

Even though I look fabulous in my black cotton shirt and skirt, I suddenly feel absurd. I am not even wearing one jewel, let alone dripping in them.

I look at Jess in her blue J.Crew linen shirt and I feel horrified for us.

“Jess, we can’t go out looking like this. Everyone is staring at us.” This is a bold face lie. The problem is more that not one single person has even glanced at us, in fact they seem to be avoiding eye contact at all costs. “They all think we are poor!” I exclaim.

“Well…we are poor.” Jess says reasonably. “Besides, I don’t really have anything nicer to change in to.”

She is right, but I don’t care. I want desperately to be in a gown and a mink stole and gloves that go past my elbow. I imagine myself as Madonna in the Material Girl video. That is what I should be wearing!

Alas, there is nothing I can do about this so I just try to hold my head up high as we go into the restaurant. Once we are inside I see people dressed in normal clothes and I don’t feel quite so bad.

Our dinner is interesting, with plenty of different sauces and ingredients, and nothing comes out on a piece of bread so I feel satisfied. The red wine from the Ribera Del Duero region we order is excellent, and leaves us feeling more than ready to hit the town. We ask our waiter for a suggestion on a good club to dance in and head there.

Inside the “dance club” are two girls who look about twelve dancing together provocatively and one incredibly drunk old man swaying in the corner. You’ve got to be kidding me. Apparently the waiter was playing some kind of joke on us. We literally walk in and walk right back out.

We wander around for a little bit looking for somewhere to dance, but are unsuccessful. Everyone on the street looks to be under the age of seventeen. We figure they must be the rich people’s kids and decide to just head back to our hotel room. Might as well get our money’s worth by spending as much time as possible in it anyhow.  

DAY 6 MALAGA AND MARBELLA

Part I

Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For

As soon as we wake up we head for the beach. We have been looking for the perfect beach this whole trip and have high hopes for Malaga. The walkway leading from the city to the beach is absolutely gorgeous, lined with flowers, shady trees, fountains, sculptures, and murals the whole way. The amount of money that was spent on this town is astounding. When we get to the beach itself though, we are in for a letdown. It seems more focus was put on the port, which is filled with hundreds of yachts, each more impressive than the last. The sand we lay down on is a little rocky, and the water is brown and gray streaked from all the expensive boats nearby.

After a few hours we wander back into town and find an internet café. One of Jess’s English friends had emailed her that Marbella is the most beautiful beach in all of Spain. We are close to Marbella so decide to get on another bus and head there.

At this point we almost feel like we have spent more time in bus stations and buses than we have anywhere else, but we are determined to keep moving until we find a city or a beach that speaks to us. We only have so many nights in Spain and don’t want to waste one somewhere we haven’t fallen in love with.

The main food source at all the bus stations is Pringles. No matter where we have been or where we have stopped, you can always buy Pringles, paprika being the most popular flavor. There is usually an assortment of candy also, and if I am very lucky there is some yogurt. Jess loves Pringles and candy so she eats happily each day we are on the move. I hate candy and although I do like Pringles, they do not in any way constitute a meal for me. They are a minor snack at best.

I get crabby when I am hungry, and I get hungry if I go more than 4 hours without a substantial snack or a meal. This results in me being starving and crabby almost every time we get off the bus in a new city.

We land in Marbella, check into a tiny little hostel, and immediately set out in search of food.

We head to a little tapas restaurant close to the beach. It takes us a little while to understand the system of how to eat and order food here. A waiter walks around with trays of tapas and if you want one you take it off the tray. Each tapa has a toothpick in it that you are supposed to save so they can tally up how many tapas you ate when you go to pay.

Each tapa that comes out is on a piece of bread and is small and not even close to filling. The waiter also only comes around every 30 minutes or so. At this rate it is going to take me about 6 hours to get full here. We decide to leave and try to find another restaurant.

Jess and I are both irritated and snappy with each other. She is crashing from her sugar high and I am just hungry. We stare off in stony silence in opposite directions and wait for our bill to come.

A tiny little old man comes up to me and stares me in the face. He looks like a beggar and I am about to give him a coin when he starts playing a flute. He dances around our table a bit and plays it as close to my face as possible. My initial irritation slowly begins to wear off and by the time he is finished with the song Jess and I are both smiling again. The old man and his song remind us that we are not here just to find the perfect beach or meal, but to interact with local people and to experience a new culture. We venture back out into the streets of Marbella with a renewed sense of excitement and adventure.  

Part II
Do You Aquavit?

Marbella is a charming little town. The streets are narrow and winding, often opening into large beautiful courtyards. Potted plants are everywhere, on the ground, in window sills, and mounted to walls and fences. The night air is filled with the wonderful scent of jasmine.

Jess and I are in search of a specific restaurant and stop to ask a group of old women where a certain street is. When they realize we can’t speak Spanish one of them grabs each of us firmly by a wrist and begins dragging us along. We try to protest but she is surprisingly strong and very determined. She is smaller than Jess even, but yanks us along at a brisk pace through the crowds of people, muttering in Spanish the whole way. After several blocks she stops in the middle of a courtyard, in front of a beautiful old church, gives us a stern lecture in Spanish and then marches off. We shout out thank you to her as we look around, trying to figure out where she took us to. We can’t tell if she purposely dropped us off in front of the church, or just got tired of dragging us, or maybe just wanted us out of her courtyard. She looks back once to shake her finger at us and then disappears forever.

We finally find the restaurant we were looking for but it turns out to be closed. We decide to just walk into the next place we see.

Our waitress is a pretty Chinese woman who speaks Spanish, Chinese, and English fluently. This is one of the first places we have been where our server speaks English and we ask her to pick out something for us. We tell her we are sick of little things on bread and want a full meal. She is sympathetic and promises to take care of us. We are quickly brought a bottle of her favorite red wine, which is a lip smacking Garnacha, and some of those fantastic Spanish olives.

She picks out a local wild boar for us, which is served with wild greens, garlic, and baby potatoes. It is smothered in a rich, delicious sauce, and is by far the best thing we have eaten yet in Spain. Jess and I are ecstatic and we keep telling her so. She sits and eats dessert with us and shares a glass of our wine.

The chef comes out to meet us also, and we give him our grateful praises. He turns out to be from Spain, but has lived in Sweden for many years. Jess and I comment on the fact that we both read the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo trilogy, and that it seems the main activities in Sweden are drinking coffee, or drinking something called Aquavit. He chuckles and agrees that is a major activity for people in Sweden. He also informs us that he happens to have a bottle of Aquavit upstairs if we are interested in tasting it.

I am a little wary, but figure what the hell. It ends up being the perfect way to end the night. Jess and I as the only patrons left in the closed restaurant, sharing a bottle of Aquavit with the chef and his worldly staff.  We walk back to our hostel in cheerful moods, picking bunches of the fragrant jasmine and smelling them the whole way back. 

DAY 7 MARBELLA AND TARIFA

Part I
Toast For Breakfast (Again), Eggs For Lunch

Our hostel is run by a big, noisy, warm family that makes us feel welcome for breakfast, and even though it is just the usual toast and butter they make it seem special. We chat with the eldest daughter and her friend about what cities we should visit next, and decide on Tarifa. Tarifa is a city at the southern most point of Spain, located directly across the water from Tangier, Morocco. 

Before we head back to the station for another bus trip we decide to check out the beach in Marbella. We have been told that it is the most beautiful beach in Spain.

Again, the beach is incredibly similar looking to a beach in Southern California, right down to the palm trees, only it is a little rockier. It looks like a storm is coming in so the water is dark grey and choppy. We stay a little while then head back into town for lunch, again somewhat confused by what people think is a beautiful beach here.

We stop at a tiny restaurant in a pretty courtyard. I try my first Spanish egg sandwich, which is basically the dinner omelette (similar to a frittata) that is so popular in Spain in between two pieces of crusty bread. I have been craving eggs for breakfast pretty much every morning so I figure I might as well have them for lunch. I smear it with ketchup and feel that if I only had some hot sauce I would be completely satisfied.

After lunch we walk around the town a little more. Marbella has been the most friendly and inviting of all the places we have been so far and we are somewhat reluctant to leave. Tarifa sounds amazing though and we decide to keep moving.

Part II
My Amazing Superhero Skills Almost Come In Handy 

The bus ride is uneventful, with more Pringles for me, and more candy for Jess (who swears the Snickers bars are different in Spain) After about an hour and a half on the bus we get dropped off in what seems the outskirts of the town and have to try to figure out where to find a hostel. It is hot and dusty and we are both dying of thirst as we walk down a long bumpy road. There are stores and dirty restaurants lining the road, with ‘hotels’ on the upper floors. They all look unspeakably disgusting and we get more discouraged with each one we pass. I am starting to seriously wish we never left Marbella.

The road ends in a busy intersection with all roads seemingly leading to nowhere. We are about to just give up completely when we spot a high crumbling wall in the distance with an archway in the middle of it. Anything seems better than just standing in the middle of the intersection so we decide to go through.

It is as if we enter another world once we go under the archway. We leave the loud, dirty street behind and walk into a maze of quiet, clean cobblestone streets. You can hear the sound of bubbling water somewhere, and suddenly can feel a fresh ocean breeze on your face. We had discovered the old town of Tarifa.

Tarifa is less than 20 miles away from Morocco, and this influence shows in the architecture, in the gorgeous Moroccan tiles, and in the intricate hanging lanterns on the streets and buildings. We find a beautiful airy hostel where we are lucky enough to get the top floor room with a roof top balcony. Everything about the place feels relaxing and soothing and foreign. Nothing about this city resembles Southern California in any way and it is incredibly refreshing. Tarifa has just become my favorite city so far in Spain.

After eating a disappointing dinner of a salty, bony local fish, we walk around the streets of Tarifa. The city is just as enticing at night, with beautiful colored lights strung across the streets. After walking for a bit we decide to call it an early night and head back to our hostel. We had been given a key to the front doorway when we checked in and told that the place would be locked up after nightfall.

The key glides smoothly into the lock but the door refuses to budge. After several minutes of Jess jiggling the key, I demand to try. I am certain that I can get the door to open, but five minutes of skillful maneuvering and sweet talking later the piece of shit is still locked. Jess starts banging on it and yelling for someone to open up. Once we accept the fact that no one is going to come to open it we begin asking random passersby for help. This ends in people kicking the door in frustration and us becoming more and more hopeless.

“What the hell are we going to do?” Jess moans.

“I’m going to climb to our room.” I announce dramatically.

Jess stares at me like I am a moron. “Yeah, how?” she demands.

Whenever I have had even a little bit to drink I get the notion that I can climb absolutely anything. This notion has never been properly tested since someone always stops me from trying, but I know in my heart that I would be able to climb a wall just exactly like Spiderman.

I circle the building and plan my strategy. Our room is on the third floor and although I can’t find a way into it, there is an open window in a room on the second floor. I figure I will just climb into that room, creep to the door and run down to let Jess in before anyone in the room even knows what is happening. I tell Jess I’m going up. She just stares at me and keeps trying to get the door open.  

There aren’t any footholds or grooves in the wall, and it turns out climbing up a bare wall like a spider is much harder than it looks. As I am debating getting a good fast start and just running straight up the side of the wall Jess starts calling my name.

I walk back to the front of the building.

“I was almost there.” I tell her in irritation.

She is standing with a drunk guy wearing a pink wig, I see a group of more people in pink wigs coming down the street.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask her.

The guy excitedly shows us a giant pink dot someone has spray painted on the ground.

“We have to follow the pink dots.” He explains in broken, slurred English. He tells us that the dots lead to a fabulous party somewhere in town where everyone will be wearing pink wigs. There are people all over town wearing these wigs, following pink dots trying to find this party. Apparently some of the dots will just lead to dead ends. Only one path is the correct path, and a lot of people will spend the entire night searching in vain. I think this is the most awesome thing I have ever heard.

“Fuck getting into our room,” I tell Jess. “We have to find this party!”

“Without doubt.” She agrees and we eagerly set off down the street.

“I found one!!!” I shriek excitedly as I turn the corner and see a giant pink dot on the wall.

I turn another corner and see a pink arrow pointing into a grim looking little bar.

“This is it!!!” The guy screams and heads in the bar. Inside the bar is one girl in a pink wig who hugs and kisses him as soon as he walks in. Then they each sit at the dirty counter of a bar and wait for more people to arrive.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I snap at Jess. I am incredibly let down, both by the fact that we found the place so fast and by the fact that this is the so called fabulous party. The idea of it was so much cooler than the reality itself that I am utterly crushed.

We walk back to our hostel with Jess being certain that we are going to have to sleep on the front steps, watching crazy people in pink wigs run by all night. I assure her that I can easily climb the side of the wall. I was almost there earlier.

When we get back to the front door there are two guys getting set to open it.

“Good luck with that,” I tell them. “The door is jammed or it is a trick lock or something. You’re never going to get it open.”

“You just have to jiggle it a little.” He says. “We’ve been staying here all week. We had some trouble with it the first night too.”

He puts his key in, lifts the door up slightly by the knob and pushes it open with no apparent effort.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.” Jess says. She makes them close the door again and open it with our key, and again the guy does it with no problem. She is furious as we walk up to our room.

“I tried everything!” She exclaims. “I even lifted the door exactly like he did!”

I feel mad that he could open the door when I couldn’t also, but I know one thing for certain. No way could he have climbed up a smooth wall using his bare hands the way I had been just about to do. 

DAY 8 TARIFA

Part I

Must…See…Africa!!!!

When I receive a slice of deli meat and cheese alongside the standard breakfast of toast and butter, it becomes official, Tarifa is my favorite Spanish city. This feeling only gets stronger when I see the beach. The ocean is a glorious, perfect shade of turquoise and the soft, warm sand stretches as far as the eye can see. Tarifa has the unique quality of being located between the Mediterranean and the Atlantic Ocean. You can literally walk across a rocky little pier from one shimmering body of water to the other. Both are equally gorgeous, filled with people sunbathing, wind surfing, and paddle boarding. 

After a few hours of relaxing in the sun, swimming, and reading I get the urge to go to the very tip of Tarifa, which is the southernmost point of Continental Europe. I heard you can see Africa from there and I really want to get a glimpse. Jess is game and we start walking south.

We walk down the rocky pier till we come to a large, imposing gate with a yellow sign saying what we assume is ‘No Trespassing’ in Spanish. Since I am not positive of this translation I figure it is still okay to go in. I can always claim 'no comprende' if caught. There are huge rocks on either side of the gate however, and I haven’t had enough to drink yet to be completely confident in my climbing abilities. We discuss trying to just climb over the gate itself but it is about 3 times as tall as Jess. As I am debating just swimming to the end Jess makes an interesting discovery.

There is a padlock on the gate but when she happens to accidentally tug on it, it pops open. We give the gate a mighty shove and it opens a few inches. We have no clue what is beyond the gate since the road curves around a large rock. As stupid as it seems to go in, we’ve come this far and we are now pretty determined to make it to the end. 

I squeeze through the opening with Jess close behind. It is dead still and completely silent as we walk up the path. We look back once at the gate and wonder if we are making a huge mistake, then decide screw it and turn the corner. Once we get around the curve we are in what appears to be an abandoned military complex. There are crumbling remains of what look like training courses, rusted cannons, and rows and rows of dilapidated barracks. There is no sign of another living person and not a sound other than the nearby crashing of waves. 

“This is so stupid.” Jess says.

I have to agree. This looks exactly like the scene in a movie where the two idiot American girls venture into a place that absolutely screams DANGER! and are quickly killed or raped or tortured or kidnapped and sold into slavery. As horrible as all these things seem, I still really want to see Africa.

“Let’s just run to the end, it can’t be too much further, take a quick picture, and then run back.” I suggest. Because, obviously, it doesn't really count unless you take a picture. 

I am both delighted and secretly terrified when Jess agrees. 

Turns out the end is further than I thought and I am out of breath before we even come close to getting there.

“Maybe it is smarter to conserve our energy in case we actually do get chased.” I gasp reasonably.

We walk slowly across the utterly creepy landscape until we finally make it to the very tip. There are three huge cannons and several watchtowers. This must have been the first line of defense against invaders coming across from Africa, which you can indeed see as a fuzzy landmass in the distance. We quickly take a couple pictures and hightail it the hell out of there.

On the way out we hear someone shouting and break into a sprint towards the gate. I figure we are either about to be arrested or attacked by the crazy mole people who must live in this freaky location. Both scenarios seem equally awful so my heart comes to a dead stop when we see the gate has been completely closed again with padlock attached. I start frantically practicing my 'no comprende' speech.

“Fuck!” Jess shouts as she tries to get the padlock open.

"Hurry!" I shriek hysterically at her, any thought of maintaining my dignity long gone.

Luckily, the padlock appears to be a dud, and it pops back open and we manage to squeeze our way through. We don't stop running until we are back on the sand once again amidst normal, sensible people, not a mole person in sight.

Part II

Living In The Now 

One of my favorite things about traveling is how it is one of the few times when I am truly living in the moment. At home I am constantly worrying about both the past and the future, and as much as I try, I find it nearly impossible to appreciate the present. When you are in an unfamiliar location, surrounded by unfamiliar people, sounds, sights, and smells, you have to focus on what's in front of you. All of my senses are engaged and neither the past or the future seems nearly so important as what I am seeing and feeling right now.
I am sitting outside in a charming little cafe in Tarifa, Spain. Across from me is a busy port with huge ships going back and forth from Spain to Morocco. Around me are people speaking in Spanish and Arabic as they enjoy their beverages. There are wild dogs running around my table as I drink Moroccan mint tea and eat Spanish cheese. The air smells strongly of ocean, boat fumes, and exotic spices. The only thing reminding me of home is the music playing over the loudspeakers that appears to be a long lost mixed tape from the 80s. I happily hum along to Terrance Trent Darby and Steve Winwood, sip my tea, and feel completely and utterly content with this exact moment.
Later that night Jess and I head out to dinner. We are beginning to run short on funds so eat a huge dish of pasta at an Italian restaurant to make the most of our money. The night before we had salted fish at a tiny local restaurant. I would have had to eat 50 of them to feel even remotely full and I didn't want to make that mistake again.
After dinner we walk through the streets of Tarifa. I love the feel of this city, the mixture of Europe and Africa, the stone architecture and the winding streets. As we are walking we hear the loud cries of a kitten that sounds to be in pain, so we spend some time trying to find it. We finally realize to our horror that it is stuck inside the engine of a nearby car. Its cries become heartbreakingly desperate as we get on our hands and knees trying to see where the poor little thing is stuck. A small crowd gathers around us, seemingly amused at our antics. No one seems very upset about the trapped kitten and Jess and I are both feeling increasingly irritated at the lack of help. We finally find some one who speaks English and explain the situation. He points out that there is a note in Spanish on the windshield that translates to "There is a cat in your engine, be careful when you turn the car on." He tells us this happens all the time here. He also tells us that even if the cat is rescued from the car it will most likely be thrown away.
"Thrown away?" Jess sputters. "What does that mean?"
He says the cat population is a problem in Tarifa and the cat will simply be thrown in the trash by whoever pulls it out of the car. The note on the windshield is more a courtesy to the driver so his car doesn't get damaged, not an attempt to save the cats life.
We feel utterly helpless, and the cat's pitiful cries are making me sick. Jess and I try unsuccessfully lifting the car, opening the hood, and crawling underneath again. We finally have to give up. The sounds of the cat crying as we walk away are absolutely unbearable.
We walk into a small, ancient pub, and try to drink our sorrows away with a bottle of wine and some olives. It is no use, we can not shake the horrible feeling and decide to just call it a night.
As we leave the bar a huge black Hummer pulls up in front of us. The thing is completely ridiculous, on raised tires with gleaming rims. One of the tinted windows rolls down and the sound of 50 Cent "In Da Club" bombards us. The Hummer is filled with what looks like teenage boys and they are all shouting at us in broken English to come to a party with them. We refuse in disgust, and the Hummer roars off, barely making it through the narrow streets. I hate Hummers anywhere but it seems even worse in the graceful old streets of Tarifa. Somehow this on top of the cat has ruined the magic of this city for me, and Jess and I both agree the time has come to move on.

DAY 9 TARIFA, SEVILLE, AND IBIZA

Part I 
I'm a Suitcase Kind Of Girl 

We spend our last day in Tarifa wondering the perfect beach, collecting shells and splashing in the clear water. The wind starts to pick up as we walk back to town and it is easy to see why Tarifa is one of the top spots in the world for wind surfing. Tiny granules of sand belt into our bare legs and arms, stinging us like we are being pricked by a thousand angry needles. We run back to town as quickly as we can and gather our luggage. The walk to the bus stop is long and it is hot outside, and once you are off the beach there isn't even a notable breeze.
Jess is wearing a back pack that is nearly as big as she is, and halfway to the stop I can see her slumping further and further down, continuously adjusting the thick straps digging into her shoulders.
I elected to bring my trusty roller suitcase with me. I've been on several trips with friends who have backpacks and I have always been endlessly grateful for my suitcase. The space age technology wheels allow it to roll forwards, backwards, even sideways. While my friends are wilting under 40 pounds or so, I am simply gliding my suitcase along next to me. I realize that the backpack is considered to be 'cooler', but I believe my suitcase demonstrates my extreme travel savviness. (Unless I happen to hit a cobblestone street, in which case both my suitcase and myself look like complete idiots) My suitcase is like the luggage in the movie Joe Vs The Volcano, always making me look good and always there for me.
When we get to the bus stop Jess drops her backpack like a sack of rocks, as my suitcase rolls to a graceful stop. I can tell she doesn't want to hear my speech about backpacks vs suitcases, so I graciously recite it silently in my head inside of out loud.
The bus takes us a few hours north to the town of Seville. Seville is a quintessential Spanish city, where flamenco and bull fighting originated. There are inviting shady plazas, orange blossoms blooming on countless trees, and Spanish people everywhere enjoying the warm weather with tapas and glasses of sherry. We stay just long enough to wish we could spend more time here, but we have a flight to catch to Ibiza, one of the world's most notorious islands.
At the airport I am told I cannot carry on my suitcase (even though it is considered a carry on size) and that I must check it which will cost me the equivalent of $75. At this point in the trip every dollar I have left I desperately need, and this is going to ruin me. No amount of my flawless arguing is working, so I finally have to fork over the cash. Jess's backpack, which is the same size as my suitcase, is allowed through with no questions asked.
"This is luggage racism" I mutter indignantly. I can tell by the smug look on Jess's face that she is enjoying her moment of revenge.
I am still fuming by the time we get on the plane, when I notice the passengers look nothing like I would have imagined. I expected a plane full of rowdy ravers, already hopped up on drugs. Kids with glow sticks, multi colored hair, and pacifiers in their mouths. Instead the plane is filled with a bunch of middle aged looking tourists, families, and business men.
"Are we on the right plane?" Jess whispers to me in confusion.
It sure as shit doesn't seem like it, but the flight attendent assures us it is. We take our seats next to a fat man in a suit looking like he is headed to a convention in Cleveland, more intrigued than ever about what the mystical island of Ibiza has in store for us.

Part II 
The Other Side of Ibiza

So far, I feel vastly mislead by the stories I've heard of Ibiza. The majority of people in the airport are dressed in cruise ship attire and are well over 40, and there isn't a raver anywhere in sight. The music playing in the background is what sounds like Kenny Loggins Greatest Hits...Volume II. It seems a very bizarre introduction to an island that is known world wide to be the birth place of the rave, an island that is known for clubs, house music, and dancing until dawn.
We had also heard that the island is small enough to easily get around and that you can take a bus anywhere and anytime. This turns out to not be exactly true either. The buses apparently stop running at 10 pm, and as it is now 10:02 we are sort of screwed. The hotel we chose for the first night is located on the far side of the island. We picked it because it is supposed to be relatively quiet and we figured we would be tired from traveling all day. The whole island is rumored to be one huge party so we thought we would go out for a little while and then have a somewhat quiet hotel to go back to. Also, it is located on the island's only black sand beach. Neither Jess nor I has every seen a black sand beach and we are both eager to do so.
After getting in a fight with the woman running the tourist information booth at the airport for refusing to help us in any way, we are forced to take a very expensive cab to the absolute middle of nowhere. The ride takes about 45 minutes in the pitch black and we don't see another car, person, or even building the entire way. Seriously, did we somehow get this whole thing wrong? Is Ibiza some sort of urban legend?
Jess and I are silent the entire way to our hotel. The cab driver drops us off at the end of a dark road and zooms away before we can change our minds. The hotel looks like a large, deserted house. No lights are on, and there is no one at the front desk. This is rapidly feeling like a diaster. We are exhausted, starving, close to broke, and crushed with disappointment. We sink onto the couch in the lobby, neither one of us having the energy to speak or to even try to come up with a plan.
Just then a round, cheerful, older man comes running out from a back room.
"Hi! Hi!" he exclaims in fairly good English. "You must be my reservation!"
He looks so happy to see us, I can't help thinking we may be the only reservation the poor guy has ever had.
"Come! Let me show you your room!" He eagerly leads us up some stairs and proudly shows us a standard looking room with 2 beds. He is so adorably proud that we can't help exclaiming over the room as if it is the nicest we have ever seen. He tells us in the morning we will see an ocean view.
"Are you hungry?" He asks kindly.
I am famished, and at this moment there is no question I would have rather been asked.
"Yes!" I burst out. Jess shrugs. She had filled herself up on candy and chips at the airport in Seville, and is probably more tired than hungry by this point.
I want food more than anything else in the world though, and I race downstairs behind him, praying he will have something more than bread.
I needn't have worried. He seats us at a rustic outdoor table, with sand under our feet and green trees surrounding us. We quickly have 2 glasses of wine and olives set in front of us. I find myself rapidly falling in love with this man. After about 20 minutes he brings us a delicious plate of local chicken, salad, and vegetables. It is one of the best things I have ate so far in Spain and I am delighted. The adorable inn keeper tells us he is headed to bed, to enjoy and that he would see us in the morning for breakfast. He also offers to give us a ride anywhere we need so we won't have to pay for another cab. It is the most genuinely kind anyone has been to us this whole trip and we are both glad to have come here simply to have met him.
We head back to our room and fall asleep to the sounds of the waves crashing outside our window. In no way, shape, or form is this how I imagined our first night in Ibiza, but at the end of it all I wouldn't change a thing.

DAY 10 IBIZA

Part I 

Black is Gray 

We wake up to the smell of salty sea air and discover that we do indeed have a beautiful ocean view. Ibiza is more mountainous than I expected, and the view is complete with green rolling hills covered in trees sloping gently down to the sparkling blue water.

Breakfast is the standard fare of toast and butter but with the very welcome addition of local honey. After too many days of nothing but butter, the honey is an unbelievable treat. I smother my toast in it, happily licking every drop off my sticky fingers.  

After breakfast we head down to the black sand beach. I have been excitedly picturing endless stretches of glimmering onyx colored sand. The reality is a disappointing ash gray color that simply looks like wet sand. I feel very deceived and think the guidebooks should be obligated to rename it gray sand beach. We came a long way just to see it though, and try to make the best of it. This isn't easy. The sky is turning the same shade of gray as the sand, the sea is angry and choppy, and there is a cold breeze blowing on us. After a couple hours we give up and head back to our hotel. 

The fabulous old man that runs the place has been joined by his family today, children and grand children all helping out (which seems somewhat unnecessary since we are the only guests). They make us an amazing lunch of seafood paella and salad and we guzzle a delicious, cold Spanish beer they have on tap. When we are finished the old man kindly gives us a ride to the city. 

He drives us to the nearest bus stop, some 20 minutes away, and we graciously thank him for everything and promise to stay with him again if we ever come back. After a couple bus transfers we end up on the busier side of the island. We get off near one of the best known beaches in Ibiza and start looking for a hotel. The choices are slim but we find one within steps from the sand. We get a tiny room with a closet size bathroom. The water comes out freezing cold in an agonizingly slow trickle, but the minuscule balcony with a glimpse of the ocean somewhat makes up for it. 

The sky is still a dark gray, the wind is howling, and it looks like it is going to dump rain at any second but we head out to explore the beach anyway. The sand goes on for miles and although it is deserted now, there are some bars and restaurants, giving us the hope that it will be a happening scene once the sun is out. We walk for awhile when the rain hits. Hard. Jess and I duck into the nearest bar to wait it out. We order drinks and watch the ocean rage while munching on our free olives.  

The only other people in the bar are a crazy Turkish guy and two guys from Serbia. The Turkish guy tells us he lives here in Ibiza. He has long, wildly tangled hair, wears a Hawaiian shirt much too big for him, and appears to be amped up on drugs. He talks a mile a minute in thickly accented English and after telling us his life story (at least we think that is what he is telling us) he announces he must go but that he will find us later because there is something he has to give us. We watch after him as he dashes off into the downpour and disappears into the dark fog, feeling slightly worried about what his 'gift' will consist of. 

Once he leaves, the Serbians move in. They are huge guys dressed in football jerseys, with giant shaved blond heads. One of them is missing his two front teeth. They are drinking Sangria straight out of the pitcher, bypassing glasses completely. They speak barely any English, but don't let that stop them from chatting us up. After they drink a couple more pitchers each they try to convince Jess and I to leave with them. From what I can understand they want to take us to McDonalds. We politely decline and they tell us they can get us into any club we want for free. This is somewhat tempting because the man running the bar has already told us that it costs between $75 and $100 to get into any of them unless you have connections. The problem is these guys are enormous, and if shit goes wrong I'm not sure how effective Jess and I will be at fighting them off. I am particularly concerned about the guy with no teeth. As much as I want to give them the benefit of the doubt, it is difficult to trust someone flashing their big pink gums at you. Especially when their hands are twice as big as your head. 

We somewhat regretfully tell them no thank you and they get into a car so tiny that No Teeth has to stick his head out the window just to fit. They drive off shouting at us to meet them at McDonalds if we change our minds. "We will be there until midnight!!!" yells the guy with teeth. That seems an absurdly long amount of time to spend at McDonalds to me. Jess and I walk back to our hotel, getting soaked with rain, wondering what a person could possibly do at McDonalds for 6 hours straight. 

Part II
A Gift, An Insult, and A Cat

Our hotel has a nice little outdoor restaurant, so Jess and I decide to just eat there. As soon as we sit down we are bombarded by the Turkish guy. He has changed into another Hawaiian shirt since we saw him last, this one slightly too small, and completely unbuttoned. His chest and stomach are covered in sand, but it looks like he has attempted to smooth his tangled hair down with some gel. We assume this must be his nighttime attire.
"I have been looking everywhere for you!" he informs us.
Jess and I both stare at him, somewhat confused as to why he would be searching for us.
"Here." he announces importantly. "This is for you." He pulls out several cell phones from his pocket, chooses one, and shoves it at us.
"Take it, take it." He urges.
I look at Jess, uncertain what to do.
"Why?" She asks him. "Why are you giving us a cell phone?"
Now he looks confused.
"Because you must have one." He explains. Ah, of course.
"Um, thank you. We really, really appreciate it. But we don't need a phone here. We don't even know any one to call." I tell him as nicely as I can.
"Don't be ridiculous!" he scoffs. "Two girls, travelling alone without a cell phone? Absolutely not! I will not allow it!" He sets the phone down on our table and tells us he will be back with beers.
"I guess we have a cell phone now." I tell Jess with a giggle.
I feel a tap on the back of my shoulder. I turn around to a table of 5 men, all laughing.
"Does this happen to you girls all the time?" one of them asks me. "Guys just giving you cell phones?"
"Nope, this is definitely a first." I tell them. They are fascinated about why he would give us the phone, and want every detail of how it came about. We tell them we are just as surprised by it all as they are.
Our new Turkish friend comes back with beers and informs Jess and I that he ordered us the lamb. He says it is fabulous and we simply have to have it. He then snatches up Jess's camera from the table and tells us to smile.
We obediently smile, unsure what else to do at this point, as he snaps our picture.
"Oh my god!" He shouts out. He is swaying slightly, clutching a cigarette in one hand, and staring intently at the picture he just took of us.
"What is it?" Jess asks.
"Your teeth!" he exclaims.
Jess blushes and covers her mouth with her hand. She has one slightly crooked tooth that she feels shy about and thinks he is referring to. The tooth is actually really endearing and only adds to her attractiveness but she doesn't like it, and I rush to console her.
"Oh please," I say. "Seriously, who cares what this guy thinks? He is completely insane."
"Not your teeth!" he shouts at Jess when he sees her cover her mouth.
"Yours!" he points at me.
"Mine???" I shriek in horror. "What's wrong with them?"
"They are HUGE!" he crows gleefully. "Some of the best fake teeth I've ever seen!" He chuckles loudly.
"But they aren't fake!" I sputter. "They are real."
"Yeah right. I know fake teeth when I see them." He shakes his head at me, gives us back our camera and walks away still chuckling.
"I thought you said who cares what the crazy guy thinks?" Jess asks me with a grin.
"Yeah, yeah." I mutter, trying desperately not to care as I scrutinize the picture. Because of the lighting and the angle my teeth do look bizarrely big and white, and yes fake. It looks like I am wearing a pair of badly fitting dentures. I quickly delete it and erase the incident from my mind by chugging two beers as fast as I can. When I raise the third beer to my mouth I accidentally chip it against my front tooth and Jess nearly pisses her pants in laughter.
The lamb comes and is indeed delicious, the Turkish man keeps the beers coming our way, and the table of 5 men insist we go sailing with them the next day. They have become strangely intrigued with us. I have successfully forgotten about my monstrous teeth and am feeling good.
We had planned to go out to one of the island's infamous clubs after dinner, but at this point we think it is best to just call it a night. We give vague promises to the guys about sailing, thank our friend for the cell phone, and head up to our room.
Sitting right on the middle of our bed is a small black and white cat.
God only knows where the cat came from and what it is doing on our bed. In our inebriated state we find it hysterically funny and welcome the cat as an old friend. We settle down to sleep with our new pet, our new cell phone, and high hopes for whatever adventures will be coming our way.

DAY 11 IBIZA

Part I 
A Great Feat of Modern Architecture

I wake up in a foul mood. The cell phone we had been given as a present was blowing up with text messages all night long. The phone refused to be shut off and we were unable to even silence it since it was protected by a security code. Apparently our Turkish friend forgot about that part when he gave it to us.
Things get worse at breakfast. I am so sick of toast and butter for breakfast that I want to scream and the piece I am given is so stale it is basically inedible. I ask for cafe no leche since about 2 years ago my stomach decided to stop processing milk (I still haven't forgiven my digestive system for this betrayal) When my coffee comes out half full of milk I tell the guy I said no leche. He becomes furious and screams at me that I should say 'cafe solo' not 'cafe no leche'.
"CAFE SOLO!" he yells and storms away.
I head for the hotel bathroom feeling angry with everyone and everything, but when I get into the bathroom I discover something wondrous.
At first I can't find the toilet. All that is in the bathroom is a sink and a shower stall. I look around for a moment in confusion. I finally peak inside the shower curtain and there is the toilet. Right smack in the shower, directly under the shower head. I cautiously step inside the shower. Why would anyone do this I wonder? I mean I guess if you needed to save space it would make sense, but the bathroom is plenty big enough. And why put the toilet right under the shower head? There would be no way to take a shower unless you were actually sitting on the toilet. I study it for a few more minutes then rush outside to tell Jess.
"Jess!!! The toilet is in the shower! In the shower!" I shout excitedly.
"What?" She looks at me weird and then says, "Let's head down to the beach."
"But...don't you want to see it?" I ask. "I mean it is right in the shower, right under the shower head!"
She gives me that look again and says she will check it out later.
I can't understand how she cannot be fascinated with this information and want to see it immediately. Maybe I am explaining it wrong.
"You see the toilet is actually in the shower" I try again.
"Yep, I get that." she cuts me off. "It sounds amazing and I want to see it, as soon as we get back from the beach."
I don't think she really means it though.
We walk silently down the beach as I think about the puzzle of the shower toilet, and Jess thinks about non shower toilet matters.
The day is gorgeous and even though it is still early the beach is packed with people. The sand is powdery soft and the water glistens in ever varying shades of blue and green. We walk as far as we can go on the sand, and then walk along a cliff. There are numerous hidden coves with nude people swimming and frolicking around. On some of the cliff walls we can see beautiful, intricate drawings and carvings. Music floats at us from all directions, everyone seems to have a stereo or a guitar.
We head back to the bar we went to the day before and are warmly greeted by the guy who runs the place. He gives us two free beers and we head out onto the warm sand.
Jess and I spend the day drinking cold Spanish beers, enjoying the hot sun, cooling off in the chilly water, and people watching. There are a multitude of Italians on the beach, all in full party mode. They dance around in a rainbow variety of speedo colors, chug sangria, laugh loudly, and constantly hug and touch one another. They seem to be having an abundance of fun, and we join a group of them for a little while to feel a part of things. They greet us with open arms and for a short time Jess and I fantasize about what life would be like as an Italian.
Alas, we are Americans, and tonight is the night we are finally going to check out an Ibiza club. We head back to the hotel to get ready.

Part II
We Be Clubbing 

After excruciatingly cold showers, Jess and I head into Ibiza City to have dinner. At first it looks like any big city; tall buildings, trash, endless laundromats and convenience stores, traffic. We wonder around for a while looking for a decent place to eat, but mostly just come across fast food joints.
We head towards the marina, admiring huge yachts where rich beautiful people are sipping champagne and eating caviar. The only restaurant in sight for us to eat at is a McDonalds (most likely occupied by two huge Serbians) I feel furious at the rich people on their fabulous boats, furious at the fact that my skin is still frozen from my shower, and especially furious at the fact that we can't find anywhere decent to eat.
We determinedly keep walking. The streets begin to change gradually to pedestrians only. Now it looks as if we have entered a bazaar. There are vendors everywhere selling sarongs, rugs, and jewelry. There is street food on offer, but still no restaurants.
We keep walking until we come to what looks like a fortress. Neither of us have a clue what a fortress is doing in the middle of the city, but we figure we have nothing to lose by entering it.
We cross over the drawbridge and walk through the huge arched doorway. In the corner is a man painted to look like the gray brick wall behind him. I figure he is a street performer and will jump out when we pass to scare us and then want money. But he doesn't move a single muscle, and by the time we have walked past him I can't even swear that he was real. I am starting to feel a little spooked as we walk around a dark corner. We have no inkling what we will find on the other side, but we can see light up ahead, so we keep walking.
I give my eyes a second to adjust and am astonished by the sight of an entire walled city. There is festive music playing, and hundreds of people eating and drinking outdoors at row after row of adorable flower strewn restaurants. The setting sun baths everything in a beautiful golden glow. We had hit the jackpot, we had found the old walled city of Ibiza.
We pick a great little Italian restaurant where we have homemade raviolis and a surprisingly delicious white wine, made from grapes grown on the island. As we are eating berry shortcake for dessert we try to come up with a strategy for the night. Originally, Jess and I had assumed we would get into any club we wanted for free simply by being girls. Since being here for a few days we have realized differently. Apparently it is really difficult to get into any of the good clubs for free, no matter who you are or what you look like. We had been told the best we could hope for would be discounted tickets. The club we want to go to has been rated in the top three clubs in the world since the day it opened. It costs $200 a person to get in to.
Never having paid to get into a club in my life, and being naturally on the cheap side, there is no way in the world I can pay this. It goes against all of my principles. Plus we are nearing the end of our trip and are broke as shit.
Our waiter speaks a little English and seems to have taken a liking to us so we decide to ask for his help. It turns out his brother has a connection and will be able to get us tickets for $60 each. Even this is painful for me but I figure it is our best hope. He draws us a map of where to find his brother and writes out a note to give him. He then informs us his brother won't be there until after 11. It's about 830 at this time.
"What?" I exclaim. "But then we won't even get to the club until midnight." If I am paying $60 I feel I should get my maximum moneys worth.
He gives me a strange look. "It doesn't open until midnight," he informs us. "And absolutely no one shows up before 2."
I make a face at Jess. Two am?? What the heck are we supposed to do until then?
We decide to kill some time by ordering a second bottle of wine.
An hour later we are back on the streets where we watch a mind blowing performance of Capoeira. Capoeira is a mix of martial arts, dancing, and gymnastics that originated in Brazil. It is stunning to watch when done right. We kill some more time by hanging out with the performers. They invite us to their show the next night on the other side of the island. One of them writes down his name and number and they run off to their next performance.
More time killing with a third bottle of wine at a bar we walk by and then we go to find the waiters brother.
The map gives us some trouble but after a bit we finally come to a little store that matches the name written down. The place appears to be a mixture of a barbershop, a record shop, and a copy store. A young guy looks up as we stumble towards him.
"Are you...." I realize I have no idea what the brothers name is supposed to be.
"Jess, do you remember his name??" I whisper to her.
She shakes her head.
Luckily one of the few words I know in Spanish is brother. 

"Hermano!" I tell him loudly.
Unluckily, I have no idea what the waiters name was either so just screaming out the word brother doesn't do any good.
He stares at us blankly.
I tell Jess to give him the note. He takes it, looks at us very strangely and hands it back.
"God damn it." I say. I realize we don't even know what the note says since it is all in Spanish. I am starting to get furious at that waiter for tricking us when I hear Jess burst out in laughter.
"Do you know what that Capoeira performer's name was?" she asks me.
"Who?? No, what are you talking about, Jess?" I snap. I don't know why she is even thinking about that at a time like this. We have more important things to worry about.
"I gave him the wrong note" she tells me. She hands me over the paper she had given him. Scrawled across it is the word Anaconda and a phone number.
"Anaconda!!!!???" I howl. "Seriously was that his name?"
Now both of us are laughing hysterically and the kid is starting to look a little scared of us.
"No Anaconda!" he says and points at the door.
At this point we are dying with laughter and by the time we pull it together enough to hand him the correct note you can tell he thinks we are completely insane.
Whatever the waiter wrote must have been convincing however, because the kid reluctantly gives us the two tickets for 120 bucks. We still have another few hours to wait so we drink a couple more bottles of wine and are on our way.
The club is called Amnesia and is located about 5 miles outside of town. The bottom floor consists of three huge rooms, each bigger than the last. Each room has four to five bars in it and it's own DJ spinning on a stage. People are dancing everywhere.
We spend the first hour or so just exploring the place. The second story of the building is more like a bunch of house parties. It is filled with bizarre little rooms, each with a DJ, each filled with people dancing.
Altogether there most be over 30 DJs playing in the place, some of whom are pretty good, and some of whom sound like a casette tape I had back in the 90s called The Very Best of Raver Music. (Which ironically, was the very worst of all music)
We are walking back to the biggest room downstairs when Jess is stopped by a girl looking to buy drugs. She tells us someone told her Jess is the one to go to for the best stuff.
The two of us could not possibly look any less like drug dealers. Jess looks like she stepped straight out of a JCrew catalog in a blue linen button up shirt and white cotton shorts. I am dressed in my best LA slutty look in a short black halter dress and big earrings. Absolutely every one else in the place looks more like a drug dealer than we do.
Jess assures her we have no drugs, and we escape her pleading eyes and entreaties to pay anything we want.
Jess and I dance for awhile, but I can't help feeling disappointed. There was so much hype about this place, and although the mere size is certainly impressive, when it comes right down to it, it feels like any other dance club I have been to. The music is good but not mind blowing, there is nothing spectacular about the lighting or the decorations. The people are exactly the same as those I have seen a million times before, dancing to the music in a drugged out state of bliss.
It is almost 5 am by now and we are thinking of taking off when everything goes black and silent. A few people gasp and scream but most seem to know what is coming. A slow, pulsating bass starts up. The kind you can feel inside your entire body, the kind your heart is forced to pump in tune to. A soft white light shines on the stage and we see dozens of huge giants come out and line up.
Suddenly the music blares out in a loud intoxicating beat and the stage lights up. The giants are actually people on stilts. People dressed up as members of a royal court. Full wigs, costumes and makeup. There is the king and queen, the jester, the ladies in waiting, the knights. All dancing. All on incredibly high stilts. The crowd goes wild and it becomes instantly clear why this is the greatest club ever.
The rest of the night is incredible, the music, the lights, the stilt dancers who move effortlessly from the stage to the dance floor, all combine into a once in a lifetime experience that doesn't end until well after the sun has risen. As I wrap my arms tightly around the waist of a 10 foot tall member of the royal court I know this will be a night I will never forget.

DAY 12 IBIZA

Part I 

The Aftermath 

I wake up smelling like a month old cigarette butt soaked in beer.
I don't smoke but after spending 5 hours in a club filled with 4000 smokers the smell sort of invades you. Jess is in the bed next to me and between the two of us it's like an over flowing ashtray that hasn't been cleaned in years.
My head is throbbing, my mouth is lacking even a trace of moisture, and the blinding sun is shining directly into my eyes. Our hotel room, quite unfortunately, did not come equipped with such modern conveniences as curtains.
Of course, today is the day our shower finally decides to quit working altogether. It refuses to spout forth even a single drop of freezing water.
It is becoming essential that I get out of our hot stuffy room, and get this smell off me immediately. Jess and I head straight for the beach. I plunge into the chilly water, desperately trying to scrub the stench of smoke and other peoples sweat off my body. Normally there is no better cure for a night of drinking than a dip in the ocean, but today I am in especially bad shape. So is Jess. By the time I make it back to my towel she is already fast asleep. I plop down next to her and spend the next two hours drifting in and out of a miserable sleep.
I wake up to the sounds of loud music and shouting. I struggle to sit up and see a dozen gorgeous women dressed in tiny red bikinis and high heels. Behind them are a handful of hugely muscled, oiled up men in form fitting red suits. One of them is carrying a boom box pumping out deafening house music. All of them are dancing provocatively. A red blimp flies over them with a banner advertising a club.
I feel fairly certain that I am hallucinating when Jess sits up beside me and grumbles about the noise waking her up.
The perfect bodies begin dispersing among the crowd on the beach, handing out fliers. Two of the girls approach me and Jess and hand us fire engine red wristbands. Written on them is 'VIP admittance, entry fee waved'.
"What is this?" I ask, stunned.
"It's a free entry sweetie," she tells me. "You should be flattered, this doesn't happen often."
"But...why??" I ask. I am hungover as hell, I can't smell good, and I certainly don't look good. My hair is a rat nests of snarls, and my blood shot eyes are squinted nearly shut since I somehow forgot to grab my sunglasses. I do a quick once over of Jess. Her hair is plastered to one side of her head and she has lines etched all over her face and body from sleeping so heavily on her towel.
"Uh, are you sure about this??" I ask her doubtfully. Jess gives me a look that clearly says shut your pie hole.
The woman grins radiantly and sashays off.
We watch as other people ask for the wristbands and get denied.
"Wouldn't you feel bad if we got denied a band?" Jess asks me. "It's kind of horrible that they are only handing them out to certain people."
I agree that it is horrible, but am secretly delighted to have been given one. In fact I feel good enough to drink a couple of beers and get rid of the last trace of my hangover.
Jess and I are headed to Barcelona on a ferry that leaves at an ungodly early hour the next day so we decide to move to a hotel closer to the marina. I am ravenous so we stop and share an enormous egg sandwich before we check out of our current hotel.
After packing up our stuff Jess goes to settle our bill while I sit outside and watch our bags. It is uncomfortably hot out and the egg sandwich isn't sitting all that well with me. I lean my head back against the wall and concentrate on not throwing up.
Jess is back a few minutes later looking furious. She tells me their credit card machine is broken and that the lady wants us to take a bus 15 minutes to the nearest ATM machine and bring her back cash.
"We aren't doing that!!!" Jess hollers back inside at her.
The lady comes outside and tries to convince us to bring her the cash. Eventually she comes to the realization that Jess screaming at her, and me looking like I'm about to puke on her entry way, is bad for business and comes up with the idea that they will run Jess's card at the bar down the road. Jess reluctantly agrees and heads off with her.
By the time they get back I am using all off my willpower just to keep it together. The bus ride to town is torturous, the heat and the fumes nearly unbearable.
"I don't feel so good." Jess announces half way through the ride. "I really think I'm going to throw up."
My heart literally stops when she says this. Until now I had been thinking I was just hungover. Jess being sick brings to life the ungodly possibility of food poisoning. There are few things in the world I am more terrified of than food poisoning and I am now in a full panic. I dig frantically through my purse and slam down 6 pepto pills and a couple Xanax as fast as I can.
We get off the bus at the next stop and sit on a bench taking deep breaths. After a few minutes we feel okay enough to start looking for a hotel. I even remember my manners and offer Jess some Pepto.
Finding a hotel proves to be much more difficult than expected. It is like we are in a vortex, walking up and down street after street, seeing every business imaginable other than a hotel. I have just entered my own personal hell, with the very real threat of food poisoning looming over me and absolutely no where to go.

Part II 
F*ck Me, I'm Famous 

We finally find a hotel, take long showers and short naps. We both still feel queasy but neither of us has actually thrown up so we figure we've survived the worst of it.

One of the things that had been recommended for us to do is go to a place called Cafe Del Mar and watch the sunset. It is supposed to be as essential an Ibiza experience as going to the clubs is. 

We have to cross the island to get there and end up on a bus full of British people. Apparently the side of the island we spent most of our time on is known as the 'Italian side' and we are now crossing over to the 'British side'.  Indeed as we are walking to Cafe Del Mar we see British flags hanging out of many of the windows.
The coastline on this side is also different, instead of sand there are large, smooth slate gray rocks heading out into the water. Groups of people mingle on them, drinking beers, smoking joints, and taking in the sunset. The ocean is a unique shade of dark blue, both blindingly bright and yet deeply dark and rich colored.
Like everything on the island the sun takes it's sweet time to set. With every few feet it drops the color of the sky subtly changes, finally ending up a beautiful apricot color contrasting perfectly with the midnight blue ocean.
Cafe Del Mar is a cross between a typical beach bar and a swanky cocktail lounge. Jess and I drink more of the local Ibizan white wine, and I again marvel at how unexpectedly delicious it is. I would never have imagined there to be vineyards on Ibiza.
On our way to dinner we pass a mob of people in front of a tiny open aired bar. People are screaming and exclaiming "I can't believe it's him! I can't believe it!!" I crane my head to see who it is, but all I can see is a lone DJ playing a Michael Jackson song.
"Who is it?" I ask a girl near me.
She gives me a look of utter astonishment. "That. Is. David Guetta." She informs me as if I must be a complete moron. "He is the greatest DJ in the entire world." My face looks blank so she tries again. "Fuck Me I'm Famous? I'm sure you've heard of that? It's like the most popular show in Ibiza?"
Nope. But I think it sounds pretty funny, and I resolve to start saying it on a regular basis.
Apparently seeing David Guetta play this close up, unexpectedly in this bar is an honor greater than any of this people could ever have imagined. I swear I see one girl almost faint.
Jess and I listen for awhile, but there is nothing special. In fact he is simply playing songs, not even mixing them or anything. The crowd keeps going absurdly wild, screaming, cheering, taking countless pictures.
We walk off feeling slightly left out, unable to understand the fuss, but wishing we could share the exhilaration the rest of the crowd was filled with.
Our dinner is one of the most delicious I've had simply because of the abundance of sauces, something most meals in Spain are sorely missing. Two musicians play Simon and Garfunkel and Neil Young songs on a tree covered stage. It is mellow, relaxing, and completely different from the scene outside.
As much as we want to use our VIP passes we are way too wiped out to wait until 2. I am disappointed in myself as I fall asleep at 1130, but am somewhat grateful to know I won't have to spend 8 hours hungover on a ferry the next day. I think I have had my fill of Ibiza anyhow. Tomorrow, Barcelona.

DAY 13 BARCELONA

Part I 
Cursed! 

We board the ferry to Barcelona bright and early. It is unimaginably huge. Cars, trucks, and even semis are being loaded onto the bottom level, while thousands of people pour onto the top six levels. Jess and I pick a spot on the uppermost outside deck. It is slightly protected from the wind, bright and sunny, and we will be among the first to see Barcelona when it appears on the horizon.
I have never been able to understand how people can stand to sit indoors on a boat. There is no greater feeling than being outside with the salty spray misting your face, the unique smell of sea air blowing your hair around, and nothing but miles and miles of sparkling blue water surrounding you.
The ferry is littered with people passed out anywhere they can find. They are huddled in corners, using their backpacks for pillows as they come off a week long drug binge. They are leaning over the railings puking up the last of the previous nights alcohol. Some are simply sprawled facedown on the ground. Makes me grateful for taking it easy the night before.
Jess and I are lucky enough to grab two of the very scarse lounge chairs with the help of a nice older Dutch man.
We get settled in for the journey, and start reading our books, pleased to have gotten what we believe are the best seats on the entire ferry.
The older Dutch man next to us strikes up a conversation. He is incredibly polite, charming, and interesting. He speaks sweetly of his beloved wife, his beautiful children, and adorable grandchildren. Jess and I are both very charmed by him and spend the first part of the journey listening to tales about the places he has traveled around the world.
After awhile he asks us what cities we visited in Spain. I start listing them.
"Well, we began in Sitges..." I say.
"Oh! Fag city!" He scoffs. "I won't step foot in that town. I can't stand all those fucking gays."
I am struck completely speechless. This old man has been nothing but sweet and kind for the past two hours, and I cannot comprehend what he is saying now.
Jess quickly interjects his rampage by listing other cities we have been to. By the time she gets to Malaga he lets out a loud snort.
"Did you see all the fucking camel jockeys? Those god damn Middle Eastern bastards are coming over and spreading their filth all over this country." He says very loudly. Jess looks around nervously.
Half my family is Middle Eastern, and one of the people I love most in the world is gay, so he has just effectively insulted and offended a lot of people very close to me.
I open my mouth to let him have it when his friend arrives and tells him there are drinks waiting for him at the bar.
He gets up to go and turns towards us. "Ladies, it was so absolutely lovely to meet you. I hope so much that you enjoy the rest of your trip and that I run into you again sometime in the near future." He gives us a beatific smile and walks off.
"I did not see that coming!" Jess exclaims.
Neither did I. So much love, and then such ugly hate coming out of that one person has shaken and upset me.
We are relatively quiet the rest of the way, reading our books, and enjoying the utter peace and blissfulness of being out in the middle of the Mediterranean on a gloriously clear day. (When you don't have a racist homophobe next to you that is.)
Our first glimpse of Barcelona is breathtaking. We come in view of it just as the sun starts setting, so the lighting is spectacular. We are greeted with the sight of thousands of boat's masts and sails in the marina, strange and wonderfully shaped buildings, and rolling green hills in the distance.
When we get off the boat we walk down Las Ramblas, one of the busiest and most famous streets in Barcelona. There are masses of people, hundreds of stands selling everything imaginable, and street performers everywhere you look. The energy of the place is palpable in the air.
We have about a two mile walk to our hostel, which we had booked back when we were in Ibiza. We are flat broke at this point and saving our last bit of cash for the taxi ride to the airport. Jess is carrying us on her credit card, since mine has been maxed out for several days now.
Tonight is the final day of a week long festival and the city is absolutely packed with people. It is slow going, and hard to maneuver our luggage amongst the crowds. By the time we find the hostel we are exhausted.
We take an old fashioned elevator up to the third floor where a sign out front said reception would be located. It is the kind of elevator where you close rod iron doors behind you and can sit down on a wooden bench inside. The kind that takes a few minutes to make it up every floor.
We finally make it up to reception and check in with an old lady. She doesn't speak much English but makes it clear that she is very happy we made it. That she had been saving the room for us and was worried we would not arrive.
We tell her we are happy to be here and ask to see our room. She says we must pay first, so Jess hands her a credit card.
"No." The lady says shaking her head. She puts to a sign behind her that says cash only. My heart sinks.
"But we don't have cash!" Jess exclaims. "We made this reservation days ago. It says nothing on your website, nothing in our travel book, you said nothing on the phone! Why wouldn't you tell us cash only?"
"You must pay cash now!" The old lady shouts. I can tell they are both getting worked up and try to smooth things over.
"We are so sorry." I say soothingly. "But we have no cash. Is there anything you can do? Any way to take a credit card?"
The old woman's face is turning bright red.
"I turned away people all day for you!" She spits at me. "I held this room now you PAY ME CASH!"
Jess totally loses it. "We don't have any fucking cash!" She screams. "You should have told us this before!"
"PAY ME." The woman roars.
I grab Jess's arm. "Let's get out of here."
"You will give us our room!" Jess yells. "Everything else is booked! There must be a way for you to take a credit card!"
The old lady steps out from behind her desk and starts muttering at us low under her breath in Spanish.
It reminds me exactly of a Steven King movie I saw where a gypsy put a curse on a man and he got thinner and thinner until he was nothing.
"Oh crap!" I say as she gets closer, her long bony finger reaching for me.
"Let's go Jess!" I cry as I start running towards the elevator.
Jess has apparently never seen the movie Thinner because she is still yelling at the lady. I physically pull Jess into the elevator and slam closed the iron doors. The old lady's face appears at them and she is hissing at us. Hissing like a cat.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." I moan.
The elevator slowly, slowly descends until I can no longer see her terrifying hissing face.
By the time we make it out to the street even Jess has the decency to look a little scared.
We set off as fast as we can away from the place, stuck on the streets of Barcelona on one of the busiest nights of the year without a clue where to go.

Part II 
Betrayal 


After the tenth try we found a hostel that still has a room available. It doesn't come with a private bathroom, which is important to both of us, but we figure beggars can't be choosers. Bizarrely there is a shower in one corner of the room, it is not raised or covered in any way, just a tiled corner with a drain and a faucet sticking out of the wall. I figure if worse comes to worse I can always pee in there.

Jess and I had planned our entire trip in Spain around being in Barcelona for the last night of the La Merce festival. I had read that the only way to truly experience Spain is to witness one of the famous Spanish festivals. Barcelona La Merce festival is supposed to be the biggest, loudest, and most colorful the city has all year. It is a week long event celebrating a saint (of course) that culminates on this final night, with mass partying, dancing, singing, fireworks, and costumes. In keeping with Spanish culture it doesn't start until later in the evening so we decide to get some dinner first.
We wander around the maze of streets that is the Gothic district until we find a huge iron door set way back in the wall. An enticing aroma wafts out of it when a loud boisterous couple exits. We slip in and find ourselves in a dimly lit, cozy old restaurant. There are various cuts of meat roasting on sticks, and inviting red booths filled with people enjoying the age old traditions of food and wine.
After settling in with a bottle of red, and ordering an assortment of meats and vegetables we ask our waiter where is the best place to experience tonight's festival.
He speaks a decent amount of English and gives us instructions on which subway to take and where to get off.
I ask him what time we should get there and he says not until midnight.
"Midnight? Really? That late?" I'm not sure why I am surprised, as everything in Spain happens later than I expect, but I was thinking it would start earlier.
He assures us it doesn't even begin until midnight, and then goes until morning. Having just come from Ibiza this sounds perfectly reasonable.
We eat our fill of roasted meats and potatoes and corn, drink another bottle of wine, and leave by 11:15 so we can be sure to have plenty of time. I don't want to miss a single minute of the festival, as it is one of the things I have been most looking forward to on this trip.
I am amazed at the ease with which we navigate the subway lines. For the life of me I cannot figure out what was so difficult for us that first day in Barcelona.
I feel my first tinge of anxiety when Jess and I are the only people in our subway car. I was thinking it would be jam packed with celebrating crowds heading to the festival.
"Do you think everyone is already there?" I ask Jess worriedly. "Or maybe, like always, we are just going to be obnoxiously early? Or are we on the wrong subway???"
Of course Jess has no answer for me, and we pass the five minute ride in silence.
When we get to the advised stop I rush up to street level. I burst out of the doors onto a completely dark and silent street. My heart sinks. I walk a few steps further and see dozens of garbage men silently picking up masses of trash. There are streamers, beer cans, wine bottles, clothes, and masks strewn everywhere. It looks like the day after the wildest street party imaginable.
I frantically run up to a cop I see on the corner.
"Where is the festival?" I demand. "La Merce! Where is it now?"
He stares down at me, completely silent for at least a full minute. I am hopping up and down impatiently when he finally speaks.
"The festival is over." He gravely announces. "You have missed it."
"Nooooooooooooooooooooo!" I moan.
He informs us that the festival ended at 11 and that we must keep walking so they can get on with the clean up.
"It was the best festival yet." He says smugly as we wander aimlessly away. The final knife in my back.
I forlornly walk the empty streets with Jess at my side. Every time I pass another wine bottle, or a cape, or a stray pair of panties laying in the street, my heart sinks a little further.
Jess is sympathetic, she is also disappointed, but I think she senses how much worse this is for me. She is kind enough not to even ask me where I am walking to as I continue along the utterly deserted streets.
We come upon a bizarre looking statue of an upside down elephant. I feel more out of touch with the Spanish people than ever. I don't understand why our waiter lied to us, why the haughty cop seemed glad we missed the festival, or why there is a huge upside down elephant in the middle of the road.
As I gaze up get a better look at the elephant I vow to make the most of my last day in Spain tomorrow, to absorb as much Spanish culture as possible, and to at long last make these god damn Spaniards respect and like me the way I deserve.

DAY 14 BARCELONA

Part I 
I Am One Cultured Individual 

I wake up bright and early filled with resolve to immerse myself in Spanish arts, culture, and architecture. I have one last day in Spain and I have a long list of sites I want to visit. Site seeing is not normally my thing, but I am here in Barcelona and at this point it feels necessary. I haven't felt like I've completely connected with Spain yet, and today is my final chance.
Jess and I start out by walking on Barcelona's most famous street, La Rambla, to the huge public market La Boqueria, rumored to be one of the oldest covered markets in the world. It is an endless maze of vendors and customers shouting and haggling with each other. Row after row of gorgeously colored produce, fresh seafood of every variety on crisp clean ice chips, beautifully decorated candies and chocolates. In between the stalls are little stands selling tapas made from the market's offerings, and even this early in the morning there are crowds of people eating dried pork, oysters, and smoked fish on bread. Wine and espresso are being drunk simultaneously. All of this is pure torture to me as I have just enough cash for a bus ride to the airport tomorrow and my credit card has been maxed out for days now. I am relying solely on the charity of Jess's credit card, which is also getting dangerously close to being maxed out.
I have to get away from all that food and wine before I end up stealing something, so we head to the next stop on our cultural tour, the Gothic District. This is the old part of Barcelona, where most of the buildings date back to medieval times. We visit beautiful old churches, shady peaceful squares, and huge imposing cathedrals. To make the most of our money we find a tiny restaurant that serves a set lunch, where you get tomato soup, green salad, and a big plate of pasta bolognese, plus a generous glass of house red wine. I eat and drink every last drop, not sure when or if I will be eating again.
The Gothic District is soothing to me, the churches remind me of the Orthodox churches of my childhood, and the dark serene quiet of them provides a meaningful contrast to the bright sunshine and bustle outside.
Next we plan to view the work of Spain's most famous architect, Antoni Gaudi. His best known building is the unfinished masterpiece La Sagrada Familia, which due to our lack of transportation funds we must walk almost 3 miles to get to. The details of the building are astounding, you could spend hours just looking at the tiny stone animals, people, and plants carved into the wall. The light streaming through the stained glass windows combines to create a multitude of colors that dance along the absurdly high walls and ceiling. The entire building is like nothing I have ever seen before.
We walk another couple miles and climb several hundred stairs to get to Gaudi's Parc Guell, a sprawling garden filled with brightly colored mosaic walls and animals, and candy colored fairy tale buildings.
The park is high on a hill overlooking the entire city and we wander around it at random, admiring the beautifully intricate mosaic tiles and spectacular views. I notice a lot of people walking up a circular path leading up a tall hill in the middle of the park. The people walking up look focused and determined and the people coming down look blissful and fulfilled. I know it is my destiny to climb that hill, that there must be something mind blowing at the top of it, maybe the very thing I have been searching for.
I can't help but feel extremely impressed with myself as I set off up the hill. I think how very cultured I have become, roaming the streets of Barcelona, visiting buildings that have been around for centuries, exploring the architectural works of Gaudi. (Never mind that I'm still not sure how to pronounce his name) I have walked for miles like a true pilgrim, even fasted (albeit involuntarily) I am ready for the spiritual awakening that surely awaits me at the top of this hill. I breathe in deep the fresh Spanish sea air, take in the sight of the Mediterranean sparkling merrily in the distance, and enjoy the feeling of the sun shining brightly on my face. I look at Jess in anticipation as we near the top and reach over to squeeze her hand.
"This is going to be really special." I tell her.
I round the final corner and come face to face with a crazy man dressed in a leopard skin unitard, rocking a highlighted mullet and a pair of neon sunglasses. He is singing Hotel California at the top of his lungs in badly accented English.
A guy in his twenties, wearing clothes that were hip in the early 90s, approaches us with two glasses of Sangria.
"The best Sangria you've ever had! Five dollars!" He exclaims loudly while shoving the glasses at us.
Jess politely refuses him, but I am too stunned to say anything.
There are people laying around on the rocks, drinking Sangria and smoking weed. No one pays any attention to the man pounding relentlessly away on his guitar.
This is my spiritual awakening? This is where my long journey has brought me? To the top of a dusty hill, to a bunch of pot smoking kids dressed in god awful clothes? A five dollar glass of Sangria that I can't even afford to buy, and a crazy dude playing my all time least favorite band?
Jess is barely able to contain her laughter. "You are right," she tells me. "This really is something special."
I sigh and start the long descent back down the hill. I don't even want to think about how far we have to go to get back to our hostel, or how insistently my starving stomach is growling.
And I really hate the fucking Eagles, man.

Part II 

Lesson Learned 


Since this is our last night Jess decides we should use the remainder of her credit card and have a nice dinner. (I also think she is feeling concerned at the seven pounds I lost from walking all day on only one meal) We head towards the beach so we can eat some fresh seafood. The walkway along the water becomes disappointedly more and more American the further we walk along it. At the end of one pier is an modern shaped W hotel and at the end of another is an enormous Dave & Busters arcade. We haven't explored this part of the city yet and are beginning to become concerned maybe there are no local seafood restaurants. I refuse to eat at an Applebees even when I am at home so there is no way in the world that I will be eating at one in Spain, no matter how close I am to starvation.
We keep walking along the chilly waterfront until we see an adorable little two story gypsy boat. It is overflowing with tables and people eating, to the point where it almost looks like it is going to sink.
"Perfect!" I tell Jess.
As much as I love the idea of eating on the boat they are filled way beyond capacity and the speed at which Spanish people eat means the wait is going to be well over 4 hours.
We find another little restaurant further along the water. Inside the restaurant are dozens of live fish flapping around in glass containers of water. We ask our waiter to recommend his favorite and he points out the ugliest fish I have ever seen in my life. It has a flat, murky brown head and glares at me with beady little eyes and a huge gaping mouth filled with rows of razor sharp teeth.
"Seriously?" I ask him.
He assures us it is delicious. The English word for it is Monkfish which neither Jess nor I have ever heard of. I'm pretty sure he is fucking with us, but we decide to take one final leap of faith and put our trust in the guy.
We find our favorite bottle of wine on the menu, the one we had the first night in Valencia, and decide it is the perfect way to end the trip. A huge dish of plump, glistening green olives is immediately set before us. These are two of the things I will miss most about Spain. The incredibly delicious wine, and those amazing free olives.
It is a chilly night, but we sit outside to listen to the sea lapping against the rocks, and to smell the salty fresh air. We can see and hear the rustic restaurant boat bobbing away in the water, it is strung with festive tea lights and candles flicker on all the tables. I love the idea of having a restaurant on a boat like that and wish we would have discovered it earlier.
Any restaurant regret I may have felt disappears once our monkfish arrives. The firm white fish is cut in the shape of a butterfly. It is laid on a bed of a creamy orange saffron sauce and surrounded by huge fresh clams and mussels. It tastes as delicious as it looks and is a wonderful last meal here in Spain.
My flight is early in the morning but I want to go out with a bang. I am fully prepared to pull an all nighter. We search endlessly for a loud, happening bar, but in the end all can find is a mellow little wine joint. The place looks like an old fashioned home library, with mahogany shelves lining the burgundy walls, only instead of books they are filled with bottles of wine.
It ends up being much more fitting then a loud crowded club, because when it comes right down to it these are the core pleasures the Spanish are smart enough to enjoy. A belly full of a long, lingered over meal. Another glass of a lip smacking wine free of preservatives and excess sugar. A cozy spot tucked away on a street older than I can even imagine. An animated conversation with a great friend. I finally realize what Spain was trying to teach me all along. It isn't about where to go next, what to do next. It isn't about constantly worrying what I might be missing. It is about enjoying the simple, beautiful, important pleasures right in front of my face.