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This morning I woke with that creeping sickly feeling of guilt in the pit of my stomach and wondered why. Then it hit me: my requested wake up call had failed to materialise and I should have been up over an hour ago. s***. I ran around the room cramming stuff in my bag furiously (I was in such a state I even forgot to steal a towel from the hotel) and legged it down to the port (which was infinitely further away than it had been the previous day without my backpack and rucksack weighing down every step) just in time to catch my ferry to Barcelona. Phew.
The ferry journey was nine and a half hours and to be honest, I was dreading it. I'm not the biggest fan of sailing at the best of times and the prospect of being lurched sickeningly to and fro for hours on end did not seem like my idea of fun. I have to say though, amazingly, it was one of the most pleasant journeys I've had in a long time. Admittedly there wasn't very much to do, but that was the art of it you see; spreading out on the sofas in the lounge trying my utmost to do as little as is humanly possible for nine and a half glorious hours. Every couple of hours or so I might rouse myself to sitting position to nibble on some oatcakes or have a cup of tea, or, if I was feeling particularly energetic, even taking a gentle stroll along the deck to soak up the panoramic 360 degree views of the ocean and bask in the sunshine. The rest of the time I lounged contentedly, listening to music (my own that is, on MP3. They were blasting The Corrs, 'nuff said.) and alternately doodling in my journal and dozing peacefully.
Even when we docked I couldn't seem to shake this alien sense of bliss, which was only heightened further by the first sights of Barcelona; a truly a beautiful city. Other than a minor mishap where I very nearly stepped into the narrow abyss between the ship and the tunnel connecting it to the building, and fell to a certain death, all went eerily well. Even the seemingly unhelpful directions from the security guy at the port when I asked for a bank ("Er, bank? Por Favor?" *blank look* "Bank? No?" *blank look* "Er, banco?" (when experiencing translation difficulties in Spain, bung an "o" on the end of a word, usually works) *look of apparent comprehension* "Si, si. Up." "Er...right. Um, gracias") proved to be spot on. The architechture arround the port is really beautiful and as I was already fairly obviously a tourist anyway (the backpack threatening to topple me over at any sudden movement is a dead giveaway I find), I decided "in for a penny", whipped out my camera and got deliriously snap happy. As I floated along, even the weight of my backpack (and frontpack) and the fact that I had no idea how to get to my hostel -or, more crucially, to a cashpoint as I had 30 cents in my purse- couldn't dispel my happy disposition.
I must, however, have been looking a little lost a few minutes later as a man standing nearby regarded me with a bemused smile and asked where I was from. Resisting the urge to retort "I've lived here all my life actually" (which, admittedly, would have been marginally more convincing if said in Spanish and without the backpack), I begrudgingly replied "England.". He asked me what I was looking for and helpfully pointed me in the right direction of a cashpoint "Up". Right you are...
Incredibly not only did I find the bank less than five minutes later, it happened to be right outside the underground station on the very line I needed, going in the right direction. "Something very weird is going on here" I thought to myself as I hesitantly made my way to the ticket machines "Things never go this smoothly. Hmmm, very odd...".
I almost cried with relief as the ticket machine repeatedly refused to take my cash and then proceeded to swallow my bank card when I tried to pay with that instead. "This is more like it" I thought to myself as I beat my fist helplessly against the fruitless machine. Three members of staff strolled leisurely over to open up the machine for me (only occasionally stopping to chat with friends, neighbours and stray animals en route). When they (eventually) opened it up, they prodded a few bits of unyeilding machinery, and tutted at it for a minute or two before turning resigned, sympathetic faces in my direction, making phone gestures with their hands and repeating "Annul, annul" as though to a both deaf and severely retarded ape. "Wicked, thankyou, you've been great. Very helpful." I said as the machine reluctantly spat my metro ticket at me -minus the bank card, of course. I collected my ticket, boarded the underground, alighted at Les Corts and trudged off in search of Alberg Pere Tarres Youth Hostel. It took me ages to find the place, I had to ask three people for directions, none of whom spoke much English ("Passed wide one" "A wide what?" I wanted to ask but I knew it'd be pointless) and on eventually finding it I was suitably disappointed enough with the lodgings provided to be reassured that things with the universe were well and truly back to the way they're supposed to be.
I have to be up and out in a few hours with no idea where I'm heading to, where I'm staying for the next week or how I'm going to survive for over two months on 80 euros but hey, tomorrow's another day...
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