During my recent trip to Barcelona I decided I’d give data roaming a go on my phone. As you’re probably aware, this can be quite an expensive thing to do. Currently being on a contract with O2 gave me two options. There’s their £20 bolt-on which gives you 10Mb of data or their £50 bolt-on for 50Mb. Having an iPhone and knowing how intensively it uses the Internet, I decided that I needed to go for the more expensive option.
“But why bother?”, I hear you asking yourselves. First and foremost it was to give me access to the things I may need, such as Google Maps. A secondary factor was so that I keep up with maintaining Twitter and Facebook updates, as well as checking in to FourSquare when going somewhere new. All of which were unnecessary or possible via other means, such as the use of a paper map. But going alone meant I wanted to be able to keep in touch with the world. It’s up to you whether you’d really want to bother for such a fee, but I decided that I’d try it.
The first step was ringing O2 to get the bolt-on sorted. It was all straight forward and done very quickly. Though if you want the full amount of data you’re going to need to sign up at the beginning of your billing cycle, as your allowance and cost is prorated and dependent on how long you have left. So if you sign up three weeks after your last bill, you’re only going to get a quarter of that 10 or 50Mb allowance (though you are only going to be paying a quarter of the price).
But what about the important bit? How much data did I get through whilst I was there? Well, not as much as I thought I would. When it wasn’t in use, I turned the data roaming feature off on the handset so that I wouldn’t accidentally open an app which required Internet access and waste that precious allowance. I also turned push off for the same reason. Although I didn’t keep an exact record of everything I did with the phone, my Sunday to Wednesday trip effectively boiled down this:
- 56 tweets (using Tweetie 2, which also downloads your feed automatically when connecting. Includes 5 with picture uploads to Twitpic)
- 24 FourSquare check-ins
- Use of Google Maps 8-10 times (including satellite images)
- 5 updates on Facebook along with several comments (3 with pictures)
- A couple of web searches
- An accidental click on the App Store (though nothing was purchased)
That little lot cost me:
- 4.5Mb of uploaded data
- 13.8Mb of downloaded data
Obviously you may not be doing exactly the same sorts of things I did for your data allowance, but that total of 18.3Mb of data was spent in not much time at all. And based upon O2’s tariff of £3 per extra Mb in Europe and £6 in the rest of the world, you may well be better off spending the extra money and getting 50Mb to begin with. My prorated allowance did end up saving me a couple of quid overall. But I can’t stress enough the need to turn off roaming and push when you’re not specifically using them – you’re going to end up with a huge bill if you don’t. And make sure you cancel it as soon as you get back – you don’t want to be spending £50 next month if you’re not going anywhere.
(Missed yesterday’s post? Take a look at Day Three)
I know I’ve not mentioned it since the very first post, but throughout the trip I’d been trying to avoid a cold. It’s always the way. It started the morning before the flight with a stuffed head, but fortunately it never really went any further. However, one nasty side effect was a terribly sharp and painful pressure headache on the flight in’s decent. As such, I awoke on the morning of the return flight with a certain amount of trepidation. My less than extensive research on the Internet informed me that alleviate the pain induced by the changing of pressure was to chew gum and thus allow the ears to pop. Not entirely convinced that chewing gum would stop me having a stinging headache, I figured it was worth a shot.
But of course, the flight wasn’t until later in the day and I had a morning of attempting to take photos whilst wheeling my suitcase around with me. Check-out was at 12pm, but as I didn’t want to have to go all the way back to the hotel to pick my things up, I had to take everything with me. Luckily I’d only brought one small suitcase, so it wasn’t going to be a huge issue.
At slightly before 9am I trotted off with my baggage in tow after a final coffee at the hotel. For a Travelodge they made a damn fine beverage! My last day in town was to start off with a stroll to Montjuïc, which looked sufficiently close enough to walk to. And you know what? It was! Not 30 minutes later and I was on my way around the hill, which happened to be the location of the 1992 Olympic Games. Remnants still linger, including the Olympic Stadium which is currently undergoing refurbishment to host the 2010 European Athletics Championships. Its stone facade doesn’t look hugely impressive, though the stadium is larger on the inside than on the out as it’s been constructed into the hillside. I got a few pictures of the outside and some of the surrounding area as I continued to climb the hill; a task made all the more difficult with the suitcase clunking away on the surface behind me. The pavements around there seem designed as to deliberately cause the most amount of noise with the wheels of a suitcase as possible!
The hill just kept climbing and climbing, and I along with it. Evidently there was something I didn’t know about waiting for me at the top as I suddenly came across a cablecar station. Put off by the €9 price tag for a ticket, I opted to carry on my trudging upwards. In the end it wasn’t too far and I have to say that unless you’re physically unable to do so, the walk up the hill doesn’t take very long at all and certainly isn’t terrible enough to consider spending €9 to avoid.
Once at the top I did discover something worthwhile. The fortress sitting on Montjuïce wasn’t the greatest piece of architecture I’ve ever seen, but it was a great place to have a custard pastry and a drink of lemonade to quench the thirst, whilst looking out into the sea or gazing across the wide expanse of Barcelona below. By the time I got there I was sweating, and not simply because of the walk. The sun had come out and it was as bright and warm as a British Summer’s day. So obviously everyone else remained wrapped up in their coats and scarves. I, on the other hand, was very gad of the light jacket that I’d decided to bring along with me. A quick change and I felt so much better.
The journey back down was a lot easier as you’d expect, though my case did take on a mind of its own as it frequently overtook me on the steeper sections.
My final port of call was always going to be a proper glimpse of the Mediterranean, as I’d never been to that part of the world before. A short walk, a Metro train and a second short walk later and I was at Port Olympic, down by the expensive yachts and sailing boats; the promenade and the restaurants; and the sun, sea and sand. What a lovely place it was and with weather perfect for an Englishman wanting to get away in the sun, but not the sunburn. Plus, as it’s off-season the place is cheap and empty.
I spent a little while down by the sea, though didn’t venture onto the beach for fear of getting sand into everything I owned. What a perfect way to end my few days away. But if only that’s how you could end all holidays; with that final look out at the sea and you’re suddenly whisked back into real life. But no, you have to fly home. And before you can fly home, you must spend time at the airport. And before you can spend time at the airport you must first get there.
So the journey home officially began, initially with a Metro train to Passeig de Gràcia. Which was fine. Confusion began once there as my sense of direction went haywire once more. Passeig de Gràcia is a large station with many platforms for many different trains going in many different directions. Which shouldn’t really be an issue as you should simply be able to look for where you want to go on a map, head to the right platform and jump on the train. But in Barcelona there are several different operators, each working from different parts of the station, and each seemingly unwilling to provide any meaningful and useful signage to any of the others. So after 20 minutes of wandering onto different platforms I finally established that I needed to leave one part of the station by going through a barrier and purchase a new ticket from a booth manned by a different operator. Yes, Barcelona’s Metro system is clean and efficient if you know where you’re going, but it’s not very tourist-friendly.
Once the train pulled into Barcelona Airport I was in for another surprise. Despite having clearly spent a lot of money on their terminal building (and its own five-lane motorway), they didn’t bother to extend the railway to meet it. So it’s a transfer onto a bus with the worst driver I’ve ever seen. Despite near on 100 people in the back, most of us standing, he tore around those corners like a mad man and almost tipped us over whilst on a roundabout.
Glad to be free and back on my own two feet once the hell ride was over, I headed into the terminal building. And it is very nice, if a little sterile. Self-service check-in and bag drop were a doddle and there was no queue at all going through security. I then did as I was instructed, headed towards gate area D and through passport control. I was all ready to head to a shop and get that chewing gum I needed. Only, if you have the misfortune to be flying from Gates D or E, you don’t get access to the 50 shops and 26 restaurants you can see on the ground floor below. No, you get access to one duty free shop, a cafe and a McDonalds. And let me tell you, even a greasy, vile Maccy D’s seems tempting after tucking into the Caffè di Fiore’s approximation of a sandwich.
Fortunately the duty free shop did have chewing gum, though only in packs of a million. So a million it had to be. They weren’t cheap either – nothing was. Damn that terrible exchange rate! Though I am now stocked up on chewing gum for the rest of my life.
As I sat waiting for my plane I took a look at my pictures from the previous few days. Even though I’d been to these places only two days before, there were still things I’d forgotten. Elements to my trip without which wouldn’t have made it what it was. Although that particular holiday was sadly almost over I still had two more trips to look forward to in the next few weeks – a flight over to New York City with my good chum @Y2Neildotcom and a second trip to Spain a week after that, this time to Madrid.
There was also still plenty more to do in the next few hours. A plane, the Tube and then finally a train before I could call it a day and draw a close to my first proper foreign vacation. The first, I hoped, of many to come.
Most fortunately, the headache didn’t return on the way back. Whether it did have anything to do with the chewing gum will remain a mystery to me, but I think it’s something I’ll do on every flight from now on. Just in case.
I was once more in child-like awe when we took off. The last (and only other) time I’d flown in the dark was on the way back from Ireland. On that occasion it had been cloudy all the way from Dublin to Luton and as such I had really got to see much of the ground below all lit up. You veterans of flight can mock all you like, but for a newbie like me it was another sight to behold. Barcelona below me, lit up and bathed in a warm glow, bade me farewell. And despite the few niggles which I encountered during the trip, it had been a great few days and a return trip at some point in the future is a definite must.
Take a look at the photos on Flickr or in the Photo Gallery. All of the photos can be viewed here – be warned: there are a lot!
(Missed yesterday’s post? Take a look at Day Two)
It wasn’t until my second full day in town that I head out into Barcelona proper. There was a reason for my wait. My plan was always to spend a day visiting the major sights and museums. After doing a spot of research it became apparent that a number of places remained closed on a Monday. So Montserrat became the activity for my first full day, whilst Gaudi, Picasso and the rest moved to the Tuesday. This trip was nothing if not properly planned! As this is the 21st century I used the Internet service TripIt to hold my itinerary, which conveniently also has a free iPhone application. This caches your details and saves you those enormous roaming fees that mobile phone companies are so keen to levy.
The day started as Monday had, with a stroll down to the nearest Metro station and the train over to Plaça d’Espanya. I headed over once more to La Rambla, but this time with the intention of visiting the Mercat de la Boqueria – a market which my guide book told me I mustn’t miss. I guess it’s my general loathing of markets in any shape or form, but I simply didn’t get on with the place. I took a single cursory loop of the main stalls before heading back out. If you’re after some meat, fruit or cheese then you’re in luck. Unfortunately I’d already got some lovely sheep cheese (which was beginning to take on a rather pungent aroma back in the hotel room) and I didn’t really need anything else. So I took to the myriad of streets and alleyways round about, taking a few pictures along the way. The apartment balconies above the small shops which lined the routes all seemed overflowing with anything and everything, especially clothing. I guess there’s not really anywhere else to hang out the washing!
Next on the list there was something I’d been particularly looking forward to – a visit to La Sadrada Familia. Gaudi’s monumental church certainly didn’t disappoint. In fact, it was more astounding than I’d imagined. Photographs I’d seen really didn’t do it justice, which always seemed to be to show this bizarre, semi-melting mess of a building. Nothing could be further from the truth. The exquisite, intricate detail of every nook and cranny seems to overwhelm. In between the hundreds of statues adorning the building are thousands of little flourishes which confuse the camera in wider shots. Seeing really is believing and I’d recommend a visit to Barcelona for its facade alone.
The inside is mostly inaccessible at present whilst (according to the leaflet) they attempt to get the interior complete by the end of 2010 so that services can start to be held. The exterior is planned to be completed by 2030, though given that it’s taken since 1882 to get this far, I really can’t see it happening. Perhaps if they worked weekends it might be done by now!
Once I’d dragged myself away from the exterior I decided to spend the extra €2.50 to take the lift up one of the towers to a viewing platform. The queue was only about ten minutes long, but if you go at peak times be aware that you may be queueing for up to an hour.
As soon as the lift started I realised I’d made a mistake. I’m generally not great with heights and those towers go up a long way. Ten of us were squashed into a lift which seemed as though it shouldn’t hold any more than five at the very most. Once at the top we were greeted with great views of the city, but only about a metre square of space to stand on. We also had to push passed people waiting to get back in the lift to go down again. My disliking of heights got the best of me after a couple of pictures and I decided I wasn’t going to wait up there for the lift to come back and get me. So I headed for the stairs. This was my second mistake since arriving at the church. The stairs down looped around the tower and offered both views of the outside and of the inside, right down to the bottom. So there was nowhere to look without frightening myself silly. As the stairs continued I had to squeeze passed people standing for photos, seemingly eager for me to have to move closer to those gaps in the inside wall. I reached the bottom of these stairs and thought that the ordeal was over. But it was about to get worse. I had to go back outside and enter another tower, this time with a more traditional sort of spiral staircase. But one without the central pillar. So one wrong step and I would have tumbled right down to the bottom. I don’t mind telling you that I was completely petrified. My heart gave a genuine jump for joy when I finally reached the bottom. I was covered in sweat by the time I got down there. I headed outside straight away to catch my breath. It’s not something I ever plan on doing again!
A look around the rest of the building uncovered a museum showing some of the older statues which had been replaced and photographs of various stages of its extremely long construction. One section I found rather interesting was an explanation of how the building works structurally, using physical examples to illustrate the point, and how Gaudi was influenced by nature in the design. The church is designed around the principle of a forest and the flowing curves in parts of the church certainly do look like a tree’s trunk and branches.
I bought my second piece of tat from the trip in the gift shop. And again, it truly is rubbish. Splendid!
After heading through the exit I was approached by a chap giving out leaflets for discounts at an all-you-can-eat buffet called Lactuca, which is just around the corner. I can’t recommend staying away from this place enough. I think it says it all that no-one else was in there when I arrived and no-one was there when I left. The food I ate wasn’t too bad, but the buffet apparently didn’t include the hot food on display and it wasn’t really all you can eat, but rather however much would fit in a single dish – there were no seconds. So I had to make do with the small amount of pasta salad that I’d managed to balance on my plate. Not somewhere I shall return to.
Next it was on to one of Gaudi’s other famous works – La Pedrera. This apartment complex is now open for visitors, though be prepared to have your bags x-rayed as security is tight. I’m not entirely sure why, as there’s not a lot in there that you could do damage to.
The building’s exterior is made up of a series of waves, with an accessible terrace roof of very strange shapes and pillars. Inside we get a view of an apartment as it would have been laid out during the building’s heyday. Interesting, but nothing too special. The attic space is taken up with displays on how the building was designed and has models of some of Gaudi’s other architectural wonders. There’s also a display on his experimentation with ergonomic design, though as you’d imagine, this wasn’t the most popular aspect of the visit. No, the most popular was up on the roof with the towering oddities. A nice place to visit for the rooftop walk, but I don’t think the rest of the experience really warranted the security or the hugely positive reviews I’d read.
On then to the Museu Picasso. I’m not going to lie to you – I wasn’t impressed. For one thing, it’s a lot smaller than I’d imagined. And I’m sure in the right circles (and if you genuinely know about these things), Picasso’s work is great. To me it seemed that the man spent a lot of his life sketching absolute nonsense which people faun over, whether or not it’s actually any good to look at. And he produced a lot of it. A huge amount. The most interesting part of the visit for me was the temporary display of Picasso’s and Toulouse-Lautrec’s personal collections of Japanese erotic prints and works based upon them. Graphic, yes, but at least they made sense! A display on how these were made, with various plates and prints at different stages of completeness, was also rather interesting.
My next plan was to head over to Cathedral de Barcelona for the last photo opportunity of the day. I arrived, took the camera out of its case and clicked the shutter release. Nothing. I clicked it again, only to be confronted with a message on the screen saying ‘ERR’. Argh! The last thing I needed on my photo holiday was my camera breaking. I looked again at the screen. There was a second message displaying ‘CHA’, which I took to mean that the battery needed charging. Strange, as the icon still indicated that it had over half a charge remaining. There was nothing else for it but to head back to the hotel early to try charging it once more. So it went back in the bag and I got back on the Metro. It wasn’t until I was back in the hotel room did I think of removing the lens and reattaching it. It worked. Arse. At least I knew there was nothing wrong with the battery or the camera, but that the lens had effectively crashed. Unfortunately I’d cut my day short for no reason. With the hotel being so far away from the centre, it was too late to consider heading back out. So it was an evening of coffee, packing and winter sports on the German language Eurosport in the hotel room.
Take a look at the photos:
- The Streets of Barcelona (Flickr | Photo Gallery)
- La Pedrera (Flickr | Photo Gallery)
- La Sagrada Familia (Flickr | Photo Gallery)
(Missed yesterday’s post? Take a look at Day One)
I’d decided on a 6:30 start for my first full day in Spain. I’m not entirely sure why as I wasn’t planning on getting the train to Montserrat until after 10:30. So after a short lie-in, during which time the news had told me I was in for a dry – if not sunny – day, I headed out, camera in hand, to see what I could snap.
The area around the hotel which had seemed so rough-looking and quiet the day before suddenly sprung to life. Traffic tooting at each each other in that very European sort of way, pedestrians snaking their way through stationary vehicles and workmen returning to continue with the large-scale construction projects which were dominating the neighbourhood. Health and safety clearly isn’t a big thing in Spain, with tower cranes loading from the street and those of us on foot being diverted into live traffic to get around the closed pavements.
Getting to Plaça d’Espanya wasn’t an issue and I collected a leaflet on Montserrat whilst there. It confirmed what I’d read on the Internet and in my guide book about the Tot Montserrat ticket. This gets you to Montserrat, up the rack train and cable cars, entry into the museum and even provides lunch. All this for only €36, which I thought was a bargain. As had seemed to beset this trip from the off though, something else occurred to temporarily darken my day. The ticket machine at Plaça d’Espanya wouldn’t give me the ticket I wanted. Again and again I got an error message to inform me that I needed to speak to a member of staff (I should point out that there are no kiosks at Plaça d’Espanya and all tickets are purchased from machines). I located a chap in a burgundy jacket who told me which ticket I needed to buy. It was €15 and would only get me there and back, with a journey on the rack railway to elevate me to the monastery. As my Spanish is almost non-existent and his English wasn’t too great either, I decided to just go for it. Only it wouldn’t take my €50 note. There was a little light informing me that they were indeed accepted, but no, it wasn’t to be. I needed to find a cash machine and left the station in search of one. It was only a few minutes walk before I came across a Santander. Which gave me another €50 note along with my €20. It seems that if you want money you can use in ticket machines in Barcelona you must deliberately take it out in small amounts.
On the way back to the station I noticed a tourist information kiosk, so stopped to ask about the Tot Monserrat ticket. Fortunately the woman at the desk spoke very good English and informed me that the ticket was currently unavailable because the cablecar was broken. It wasn’t the answer I really wanted, but at least now I knew.
Back underground at the station the machine took my €20 note and I hopped on the R5 to Manresa, which stopped at Montserrat en route. A very useful announcement in English informed those of us who could understand it that a further announcement would be made when the train was approaching the station where we needed to alight.
The rack railway train was awaiting us at the station when we arrived, which then proceeded to take us up the side of the mountain. And what views through the window of this modern, yet still rickety, vehicle! As we climbed, the valleys and hills beneath us began to grow in size and number. The shear drop just outside would be enough to turn any vertigo sufferer mad.
At the top you’re treated to a superb view off into the distance, broken up by the frankly phallic-looking rock formations which so define Montserrat.
The first task was to take a couple of pictures, as this was kind of the point of travelling there in the first place (though up until that moment the camera hadn’t been out). After a fifteen minute walk I decided a spot of breakfast was in order and so headed back to La Cafeteria where I wolfed down a large custard croissant and washed it down with two very milky cups of coffee (which I was becoming very partial to by this point). Before I could get there though I was accosted by a woman selling cheese, who was so intent that I should buy some, she made me try every single type that she had on offer. Not that I’m complaining mind – I do love a good bit of cheese. And these were some very good bits of cheese. In the end she twisted my arm into buying a large wedge of sheep cheese, which was very strong and ever-so flavoursome (what little remains is sitting in my fridge. I think I shall finish it off after I’ve written this post!).
A set of stairs then whisked me up to the monastery, which is a very striking, very large and very square building perched on the side of the mountain. It’s sort of the exact opposite of La Sagrada Familia down in Barcelona (see part three of these posts for that). It was also a lot newer-looking than I’d expected and it’s 18th century facade doesn’t seem at all to be succumbing to age. The same can’t be said for all of the statues however, with many missing noses or hands. I took a few pictures as well as some within the courtyard of the building itself.
Then it was over to the museum, whose entrance is situated on the same level as the main monastery building. Amongst the art and antiquities on display, the museum also housed only three patrons whilst I was there. And one of them was me. I found this rather surprising as on top of the huge number of paintings of Montserrat, religious iconography, Mesopotamian sculpture and Egyptian artefacts were a number of paintings by artists even I’d heard of; Picasso, Dali, Monet and Caravaggio. Unfortunately photography wasn’t allowed in the building, as the other two visitors discovered when chased down by a security guard who’d been watching them on the CCTV.
After my little foray into all that culture it was back to the cafe for a rather suspicious-looking giant sausage. In the words of Blackadder’s Mrs Miggins, “he’s made that horse’s willy last all morning”. Anyway, moving on…
Once lunch was out of the way I decided to climb a bit further up the hill. The Funicular of St Joan would normally have taken me right to the top, but it wasn’t currently operational due to its annual maintenance cycle. So another reason I couldn’t purchase that Tot Montserrat ticket. This meant the views from the side of the hill would have to suffice. I did manage to take some pictures of the statues that line this route though, which I would have missed had I taken the funicular.
Looking down into the valleys below, one can see that although there are vistas here of staggering beauty, the area is still very industrial. Road and rail wind their way between factories and warehouses. A crane is a sign that more building is to come, likely to be another of the large apartment buildings which dominate the once picturesque towns below.
Before I headed back down to get the train for my return trip to Barcelona, it was back to the cafe for one last cup of coffee and a cake, and a trip to the gift shop to buy something for my tat collection. I make a point of buying something cheap and tacky whenever I visit somewhere new. Something that represents the place I’ve been, but something that is also cheap and awful; something you would never, ever want to put on display in your home. I opted for a little statue of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus. My, my, it really is tacky (as this picture will no doubt demonstrate)!
The journey back to the hotel was generally uneventful, although I did notice that there was an extraordinary amount of graffiti. Not just on along the side of the railway as you’d see in England, but all over the houses and flats we passed. Whether the graffiti artist is more prevalent in Spain than in England, or if we’re just more adept at cleaning it off, I don’t know. There were also a large number of run-down villages and some which appeared to be completely derelict. Houses without roofs, old factories being used as makeshift homes, road projects apparently abandoned. Unless someone knows differently and can offer an alternative explanation, it appears to me that the area surrounding the seemingly rich Barcelona is extremely poor and desperately in need of investment.
Once at the hotel I decided I wanted to what the world go by. This wasn’t possible from my room as the window opened out onto the side of a factory. So I bought myself yet another coffee and found a seat in the cafe / bar / reception area with my book. I say I found a seat, but there were around a hundred to choose from and they were all unoccupied.
As a slight aside, I happened to spend ten minutes (and €2) accessing the Internet from Travelodge’s kiosk. It was using an archaic version of Internet Explorer – possibly even predating IE6. If you’re staying there and want to use the Internet, be warned that it doesn’t handle modern websites very well at all and that you may well be wasting your money if you’re after doing anything from the Web 2.0 era and beyond.
So that was day two. Montserrat really was lovely and seen in almost perfect weather. That morning’s news report had been clearly wrong and the sun they said would not make an appearance was out in full force. Hardly a cloud in the sky, and although a coat was a must, it was just the right temperature for a day’s walk.
The photographs from day two are now on Flickr and in the Photo Gallery.
My little excursion to Barcelona didn’t get off on a particularly high note. I awoke at 4:30am with the makings of a cold. Why it had chosen to make an appearance on that day of all days I do not know, but there was something clearly irritating about its timing. Still, I tried not to let it affect me too much (and I added a hand-full of tissues to my already bulging suitcase).
After double-checking I had everything it was off to the station to try and fight with the ticket machine. It seems that pre-booking your tickets online actually increases the length of time it takes to work the blasted thing. It also didn’t help that the first machine I tried refused to accept my card and that I was put off slightly when trying to type in the booking code by two lads who couldn’t work out which “effing” ticket they needed to buy, whilst simultaneously attempting to make the guard hold up the train’s departure for them.
To be honest, I think my initial crankiness over the developing cold and ticket machine issues was more to do with the fact that the coffee shop wasn’t open that early on a Sunday morning and I was missing my fix. Sitting on a train somehow doesn’t feel right without a coffee in my hand. I spent the entire long, slow journey to St Pancras praying that a caffeine injection was awaiting me at the other end, but deep down knowing that it wouldn’t be the case. What made matters even worse was that the First Capital Connect train I was forced to occupy stopped at even more destinations than it ordinarily would during the week. But these weren’t the thoughts to be having. I was on my way to Spain – my first time in the country and the first time I’d stayed away abroad (if you don’t count the short weekend spent in the Scottish lowlands!). So I attempted to stem the feeling that pretty soon my system would be 100% caffeine-free by reading. It didn’t entirely help in that respect, but by the time I looked up I was in Kentish town and not too far from St Pancras.
To my complete surprise, Starbucks was open as I emerged from the underground lair where First Capital Connect trains are forced to stop, save them coming into contact with Eurostar or East Midland Mainline. A skinny latte and a cinnamon swirl later and I felt much improved. Not even the TFL worker who chastised me for heading to the right platform could dampen my spirits (no signs telling me that the train would depart from the opposite platform, but her tone suggested that I was wrong for my lack of psychic ability). So I settled into my second lengthy train ride of the day, surprised to see so many faces so early on a Sunday morning. Fresh faces too – these weren’t last night’s crowd returning home, but rather well slept folk on their way to work.
Heathrow Terminal 3 seems fairly miserable from the outside. It’s not much better on the inside, though I can’t really fault BA staff for their courtesy and politeness whilst I was checking in my bag. They seemed to remain calm and well-mannered even with crowds of people around them and with me explaining that I had no idea what I was doing. After worrying I’d be at Heathrow far too long before my flight, I think I timed it just about right. Following a long queue to buy a lock for my case, a long queue to check my bag in, a long queue to get through security and a long queue in WH Smith, I was at the gate just after it opened and was able to walk right through. Beside the queueing, I think my first experience with checking in baggage was a rather smooth process.
As for the flight, the BA 757 was very drab inside, which was something the complimentary tea and Jordan’s bar couldn’t quite hide. Outside the plane was a completely different matter though. I’ve no idea of the flight path we took, but the French scenery beneath us, with it’s stunning snow-covered mountains and valleys, was a sight to behold. Perhaps one day, when I become a veteran at that sort of thing, the view from an aeroplane will become less awe-inspiring, or perhaps even a little blasé. But for now it continues to take my breath away. I only wish it were easier to take a good photograph from the seat of a 757, rather than having to make do with a quick pic on my 2mpx iPhone camera (switched to Airplane mode, obviously). Still, I plan on finding plenty more opportunities to be in the air in the future.
Unfortunately the day took a turn for the worse once I landed. Some might say I’m complaining simply for the sake of doing so, but it’s the little things which irritate us the most. Firstly there was the minor niggle of the cash machine only handing out €50 notes. I felt this would be an issue with taxis etc and, knowing how the majority of shops in England felt about £50 notes, I decided I needed a machine capable of giving me something a little smaller. (Of course, since returning from the trip I’m aware that the €50 note is widely accepted everywhere without fuss, so what I did next was really quite unnecessary). I scoured around for a while looking for another ATM. My woeful sense of direction led me outside, around a carpark, through a taxi rank and a mini bus station until I found my way back inside and located a machine not 20 yards from the one I’d been using. Entirely my own fault for not looking properly in the first place, but still not the perfect start to my time in Spain.
Things got mildly irritating again not 20 minutes later as the taxi pulled up outside the hotel. Apparently, according to the card he just so happened to have hidden in the front seat, there was a minimum fare for airport rides. And a baggage fee. And a window tax, or some such nonsense. All-in-all I felt that €24 for a ten minute taxi ride was not at all right. But what could I do? Faced with a burly taxi driver who was holding my bag to ransom in the boot, who spoke no English (as I spoke no Spanish), my only option was to give him this extortionate fee. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a little button under the dashboard he could call upon when in similar situations. I swore off taxi rides for the rest of the trip, although as you’ll see later on, this turned out to be more difficult than I’d expected.
So finally, after all that, I was able to check in to the hotel. This turned out to be rather easy, with a receptionist who spoke very good English and a hotel which, although not stunning, certainly afforded the usual Travelodge cleanliness and amenities. Except the room was missing a kettle which, as an Englishman, I do find a little hard to forgive. What it does have though is a bar and a restaurant open for breakfast, though due to the prices (and my desire to attempt this trip on a budget) I stuck to the coffee.
After unpacking the few clothes I brought with me I headed back out, intent on spending a while wandering La Rambla, which I’d heard was a a must. I followed Google’s advice about the location of the nearest Metro station, taking me through some more of the industrial estate in which the Travelodge was located (it was only €12 a night, after all). It also led me passed some of the most rundown housing blocks I’d ever seen, these being surrounded by a building site attempting to improve the area. (Though upon closer inspection over the next few days, I think the shutters which most of the windows had down and the clothing which each balcony seemed to have hanging from it made the whole scene look a lot worse from an English perspective. They had the look of a dodgy housing estate, but the people on the street seemed friendly enough and I believe my initial reaction was perhaps a little strong).
I made my way passed the flats and suddenly came across a Metro station. A station which didn’t exist on Google Maps. Not for the last time that day I was going to be let down by Google.
I purchased my ten trip ticket which I thought would be more than enough for my few days in town. Unfortunately it all seems dependent on each leg of your journey and whether it takes you onto the trains of a different operator. If that is the case, you’re going to need more than one ticket to make your entire journey. So my change at Plaça d’Espanya in order to get to Catalunya meant two tickets there and two tickets back. I figured I’d probably need to buy another before the holiday was over.
La Rambla certainly was worth a visit as I do like a good walk. And some of the building facades were rather nice. It’s a strange set-up, with a very wide central reserve holding the vast majority of pedestrians, street sellers and performers. Cars pass by on either side, allowing just enough room on the pavements to head into the shops and restaurants which line the street.
After my amble I headed into Café Catalunya; a cafe/bar at the Plaça de Catalunya end of the street which caught my eye because of the promise of an English menu. I headed in and sat myself at the bar with a coffee and a list of food to peruse. I’d not had tapas before. I had no idea what I was doing. So I ordered two random items off the menu and I wasn’t disappointed. I started with a Bomba Picant amd la Seva Salsa, which was a breaded ball of potato surrounding a meat filling, accompanied by a very nice hot, creamy sauce. My second choice was a risk and one which I feared I was going to regret. To my absolute surprise and delight I adored my Broqueta de Sipia – a skewer of cuttlefish. They were amongst that group of foods which I always thought looked absolutely disgusting and thus wanted to avoid at all costs. But I figured I was up for trying something new, so I popped one of the little creatures off the stick and onto my tongue. Chewy, but also slightly crunchy due to the way it had been cooked. I’d never before wanted to eat anything with tentacles, but now I’m sure it’ll be at the top of my list next time I see it on a menu. Lovely.
I paid my bill and decided to get back to the hotel. It was, after all, starting to get dark at 6:30 and I wanted to make sure I was back at the hotel before it became pitch black. If you remember, I’d sworn off taxis for the remainder of the trip and knew that I didn’t like the look of the neighbourhood I’d have to walk back through in order to get there. Plus, I’d had a long day and planned to be out walking for the majority of the next three. Not being a party animal, I was also more than happy to be back at the hotel in the evening with a book on my lap.
So it was back on the Metro, changed at Plaça d’Espanya and once more headed out into the industrial estate. I decided that a new plan was in order to try and negate the need to pass by those housing blocks after dark. I started following a crowd towards a newish leisure complex, which housed restaurants and a cinema amongst other things. Then, once I was far enough away from the flats, I turned on Google Maps to plot me walking directions back following an alternative route. Sometimes it truly is a case of better the devil you know as Google didn’t know the way back to the hotel. Oh, it thought it knew the way back, but it didn’t have a clue. Entering both ‘Travelodge’ and the postal code into its search directed me to a Porsche dealership. And thus I was lost; trapped in an enormous, graffiti-covered Spanish industrial estate with no idea at all where the hotel was. Nor was there anyone around to ask. My only company for an hour were sleeping truckers, tucked up snuggly in their cabs. And there was no way I was going to interrupt a sleeping trucker to ask for directions! I’d never seen such a huge urban spread so entirely deserted.
Eventually I was becoming desperate. I could see no way out and couldn’t trust Google to point me in the right direction. Then I suddenly spotted a shining light. There was a hospital. And just outside the hospital, literally that moment dropping someone off, was a taxi. I was saved! I ran as fast as my tired legs could carry me and grabbed the door before the fare could close it.
“¿Hablas Ingles?” I asked with an air of desperation. The taxi driver put her hands to her mouth as if to say “none at all”, but to my eternal gratitude she said “a little”.
“Do you know the Travelodge?” I enquired, a look of hope suddenly returning to my eyes. She shook her head, “Travelodge… Travelodge…”. Nope, she didn’t know. “The hotel?” I offered. Another few seconds passed by when a sudden look of recognition came across her face and she gestured for me to jump in.
Bless that woman for she is the loveliest taxi driver I’ve ever met. She happily drove me around that estate looking for the hotel, no real clue where we were going. All of a sudden it was there on our right and we both let out a yelp of joy. She seemed as pleased as I was that we’d managed to locate it. I had broken my promise to myself of not getting another taxi within a few hours of making it, but I’m very glad I did. This one didn’t try to rip me off and she received a handsome tip for her trouble. It was worth it.
My feet were killing me by the time I got back to my room. A bath was a necessity after that and I soaked my feet for a good long time, ending the day in front of German commentary of the Welsh Open Snooker Championship on Eurosport. I fell asleep in the hope that my trip to Montserrat the following day would be, in many ways, less eventful.
