From Milan to London

The last email I sent concerning our travels. Did you get it? If not, relive the memories now.

Buenos Tardes amigo...

Well here I am back at ‘Chez Justin’ in London with
nothing to show for my travels but a few scratches, a
couple of hundred photos, and a million memories
(roughly).  It seems very strange to be back here,
especially as very little has changed and the world
really did seem to be able to get by without me.  I am
not under the time-restraints of a web café pricing
system so please, allow me to ramble a bit.

When last I wrote I was in Milan and a few miles have
been covered since then.  After I left you all at the
email shop we headed over to a classically atypical
Italian café and had sandwiches and espresso strong
enough to keep you up all night if drunk after midday.
The waiter was one of those quintessential
middle-aged Italian waiters who is so good at his job
you don’t need to order from him, he just brings you
what you want when you want it.  Have you noticed that
in Britain, male waiters never seem to be older than
30?

Following Milan we traveled right across France to
Hossegar to stay with Simon.  The overnight journey
was improved by having a couchette cabin so some sleep
could be had.  However the French rail network seems
to think that a pillow the size of a tic-tac is
sufficent.  Now, I’m not too fussy about pillow size
normally, however on a train it is a little more
important.  Every time the train takes a corner it
tilts and you need a fairly big pillow to keep your
head above the rest of the body else the blood will
rush in there causing a weird sensation.  Suffice it
to say that I had some very strange dreams that night.

We spent a very long week in Hossegar and the relaxed
vibe was an absolute tonic after all the cities.   The
town is pretty small and off-season a lot of it is
closed so we had to entertain ourselves quite a bit.
Fortunately the weather was just like England in the
summer so we got in much surfing, barbecues, rounds of
boules, bike rides and runs.  My surfing is still
pretty poor, even after eleven years of trying I can
not quite stand up, but the conditions were quite
fierce this time and I took more than one vicious
pounding at the hands of the Atlantic.  We were also
joined by two of Simon’s surfing buddies, Groves &
Dempster, which made for a great more-the-merrier
atmosphere, even if I was reduced to sleeping on the
floor.

We then traveled to Barcelona.  We had a brief
stopover in Toulouse which I can describe in one word;
‘shitty’  Maybe I’ll elaborate.  I don’t want to speak
for the whole town, parts of it maybe as picturesque
as a biscuit tin, but everywhere within walking
distance of the train station seemed to be painted in
excrement, both canine and human it would seem.  There
was a staggering amount of crap in this town and
stagger is exactly what you did as you tap-danced
between the piles and smears of the stuff.  We finally
found a spot for lunch, the enticingly entitled ‘Hotel
Bristol’ where the food served was so poorly put
together and overpriced that the management virtually
guaranteed no repeat business – still it was right by
the station and their business must come solely from
poor suckers like us who don’t have the time to find
anywhere else.  Still, the beer was good which
triggered another observation; I have never had a
remotely bad beer served to me on this trip, and
believe me I have tested this hypothesis beyond all
statistical doubts.  I experienced lousy
accommodation, transport, food but it seems nobody in
this great continent wishes to be known as a purveyor
of bad beer – surely a sign of civilization.

Barcelona is a great city – I remembered it as that
from my first visit nine years ago and I wasn’t
disappointed.  My only complaint is that you simply
cannot find a greeting card suitable for a grandfather
in the entire city – we spent THREE HOURS looking for
one.  I can only assume that the Spanish simply don’t
care for their grandparents at all. 

I partook in the local culture, enjoying the Gaudi
Architecture, especially his intricately-designed
park, as well as visiting the Picasso museum (poorly
curated in my expert opinion).  We also scored tickets
for the Barcelona vs. Athens football match at the Nou
Camp stadium.  This is (I think) the largest stadium
in Europe with a capacity of about 110,000 (again, I
think so don’t go emailing back sports buffs).  We
were in the vertigo-inducing third tier looking down
upon the game as Gods might, though without the divine
influence on the game.  The atmosphere was great and
it was awesome to see how another country enjoys their
sport. Barcelona won 5-0 so a good result for the
locals and of course no European riots.

I enjoyed the vibrant street theatre, though the
idiots who paint themselves silver and stand very
still are still rubbish – it is not a talent!  But I
saw some good musicians, a decent sword swallower, a
great juggler (and I hate juggling) and the absolutely
worst street-performer ever to tread the boards, err I
mean the cobbles.  This girl who I am sure was either
on drugs or simply crazy serenaded us with song,
practiced inept ballet, tried to sell something she’d
found in a bin, drew very bad pictures, climbed a
lamppost, threw something in the air, clapped three
times and caught it again and finally simply verbally
abused the audience – all done ineptly.  It was
car-crash theatre, I knew I shouldn’t watch but I
simply couldn’t take my eyes off the fiasco.  Talking
of street theatre, on our last day Owen and I finally
took our finely honed skills to the streets and
serenaded the beautiful Placa Reial to our own brand
of acoustic rock and blues.  The square is one of the
cities most impressive (we were staying in a hostel
that overlooked it), full of cafes, a fountain and
tall palm trees, as good an arena as any busker could
want.  Our audience soon turned up – a one-legged
homeless man who was so enthusiastic, he was giving us
money and then clapping along before falling into a
coughing fit that saw him nearly tumble out of his
wheelchair.  Just as the set was nearing its ecstatic
climax the local cops came and shut us down.  Although
our audience argued for all he was worth we knew
better than to disagree with two cops armed with guns
and hitting-sticks and so the guitars were put away.
Rock and Roll!  We gave our loyal fan his change back
as well as a little more to buy himself some Strepsils
and so ultimately we made a loss – this was not the
idea of busking.  And so it seemed time to go and
that’s exactly what we did.

The End

I’ll post some pics up soon once they are collated,
edited and photo-shopped so you’ve got that to look
forward to.

It’s goodnight from me,
                          and it’s goodnight from
him.

All the best

Justin