It's all in the delivery

I had an entertaining evening on Thursday. I had dinner in downtown Chelsea with my step-brother Michael and his colleague Bulldog. Now this Bulldog character can tell a story. I've got to give it to him, there aren't many people who can raise a laugh out of a serial-killer-roaming-your-neighbourhood story. But Bulldog did. I had to admire him. His timing was perfect. The delivery impeccable. Understated. Self-deprecating. Stunning.

I was taking tips.

Then, a story. A story about coming back from the camping ground showers in a pair of Y-fronts and a towel and getting into a fight with the annoying heavies in the tent next door. The towel was lost. Bulldog's dignity was revived in the fine telling of such a preposterous tale.

But hadn't I heard this somewhere before? Suddenly quite a few of his stories started to have a familiar sound. Wasn't this a scene in Choice Bro Caravan Park? Now, for the non-Australians, I will need to explain that Choice Bro Caravan Park was the brilliant radio drama of Merrick and Rosso. Rosso happens to be Bulldog's best mate.

I smelled a rat. Merrick and Rosso have been getting laughs out of their mates' stories for years. And why not? It doesn't matter who it happened to, it's all in the delivery.

And that got me to thinking. With some tips from Bulldog, I reckon I can become one of the great story tellers. And I don't even need my own jokes. It's what happens in the industry!

I'm spending the next few days working on it. Dave Levato once said to me, "Gabs I like your stories, but if they went for half the time, they'd be even better." And he's right. Bulldog's build up was just right. Timing. Delivery.

So to all my friends whose stories I've been dining out on for years: you got any more?

Good ridance evil personified

Am I the only one thinking the departure of the most evil influence in world politics has been dramatically understated?

Shouldn't there be parties in the streets all over the so-called free world? Shouldn't we be greeting the news with flowers and song?

Karl Rove was the inventer of dirty tricks politics. Dubya even called him "the Architect" (in all that that implies).

Let's not forget this is the man who got Dubya into politics. Some of his more famous dirty tricks include:
* massive phone arounds of black residences telling them the election was on a different day
* leaked a false story that John McCain had fathered a black daughter out of wedlock (McCain has an adopted Bangladeshi daughter) in the 2000 primaries. This was just one of the false stories he was spreading about McCain at the time. And McCain is in his own party.
* volunteered for a Democrat, then distributed 1000 invitations to a campaign fundraiser around Chicago's red light district promising "free beer, free food, girls and a good time for nothing"
* push-polling: arranging phone calls from supposed pollsters to Democrat voters asking questions such as "Would you be more or less likely to vote for [female candidate] if you knew her staff was dominated by lesbians?

And did he or didn't he leak Valerie Plame's name (an undercover CIA agent whose diplomat husband was a vocal opponent of the Iraq war) to Washington journalists? There's little doubt.

You can read much more about the father of dirty tricks at karlrovesucks.com

Someone whose political opinion I greatly respect once said, "The Democrats' biggest problem is that they don't have a Karl Rove."

Call me Pollyanna, but thank goodness, I say. I still believe there can be some good in politics.

BMX Bandits: the sequel

A fellow wino

Who doesn't love Amy Winehouse?

I am in love with Amy Winehouse. I love her hair, her dress, Kelly Osbourne's stilletoes and her little ballet slippers. I don't mind that she flashes her knickers and sometimes falls off the stage. I can understand that she forgets to go to her gigs occasionally. I mean, she's only a fellow human wino, isn't she?

Gives me hope. Not just for my singing career, but for life.

Cheers Amy. Somerset House was amazing.

Biking babes

They're here, they're everywhere. I'm one of them. So is Bindi. We're biker babes. (Of the push variety.)

Riding bikes used to be for people who were prepared to wear lycra, in fact, were serious about lycra and the pursuit of cycling as a world sport. That was when the Tour de France was fielded by sportsmen instead of junkies. When you could get a seat on the Tube. It was a time when you grew out of your BMX you got a car and drove everywhere. When talking about global warming branded you as a tree-hugging hippy.

It's all changed. And it's great! We're keeping trim by seeing more of London and avoiding the Tube.

In Barcelona, you can see smart women gliding along the Boulevard bike lanes with handbags on shoulders, pretty skirts and high heels. In London, mothers riding along the backstreets of Battersea with babies on back and a basket full of bread are commonplace. Bike riding is old hat to many European cities, but in these two cities it’s a new deal.

Devoted la reina del drama readers will know I initially had some trouble adapting my wardrobe to my biking ambitions. Thanks to John, I've been able to apply some handy tips to allow me to wear whatever I want on my bike. Fellow biker babes should read The Diva's Guide to Biking.

Now I'm taking my bike riding to a new level. In October I'm riding to France with Bindi, Fran and Ross. Possibly Darren and Julian as well, who are as yet uncommitted. Can't understand why, but give me time. This is a training trip for the spring excursion along the Danube, where we'll ride through the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, stopping where we please and embarking on adventures galore over a two-week period.

I'm still trying to figure out where I'll fit my hairdryer because space in those paniers is pretty tight as far as I can tell. Luckily Bindi and I can share clothes, which saves on space. And after Granada and Morocco we're well versed in travelling light. If anyone has any tips on carrying hairdryers on biking trips, I'll credit you with the advice on this blog. Please write, call, email or Facebook. I need to plan.

Logo logic

Anyone else bored by the Olympic logo brouhaha? Well, I've comforted myself by devising a set of rules for Olympic logo launches. Take note Beijing.

Rule no. 1: There is no logic to a logo. No matter how advertising gurus try to explain the meaning behind a design and why you should love it because it epitomises everything about your brand, you shouldn't believe them. Creatives don't have logic. They doodle something down on a bit of paper and then some marketing person dreams up a reason as to how that doodle will sell everything you want it to sell and make people love you. It's all utter crap and as long as everyone knows that and is willing to admit it to themselves without the need for saying it out loud, the world is in harmony. Let's face it, we need these people, we need logos, we need a brand. And how boring would a logo be if it actually did have logic?

Rule no. 2: No one likes a new brand. This was best summed up in the Guardian's weekly media podcast. If you don't already, do yourself a favour and subscribe. I love it - you feel like you're invading a dinner party conversation and learning something at the same time. Are they drunk at the time of recording?

Anyway, in summary - don't launch a rebranding. No one likes a new brand. What was wrong with the old one? If it ain't broke, don't fix it? (Can you think of anything more banal to actually say out loud? If I ever hear someone say that to me personally I promise you I will personally tear their lungs out. I feel that strongly about that turn of phrase).

No one likes change. The only people who like change are left-wing Guardian-reading wanna-be radicals who live in Islington (not the Guardian's words, but mine).

Don't launch it - sneak it in!

Rule no. 3: No one likes the Olympic logo. Well, in my experience of having lived through one Olympic Games in my city, everybody criticised every decision that was ever made about the Olympics, but especially - and most vocally - the logos and those weird little animals thingos they had to go with the logo.

Rule no. 4: Everyone loves the Olympics. I have no words to describe the feeling of having the Olympics in your home town. Of working at the swimming - your favourite event. Of having two hours sleep and regretting that. Of talking to people on the bus. Of cheering so loud you lose your voice. Of watching, looking, meeting, singing, dancing, laughing, talking and losing. Yourself.

Everybody loves the Olympics in the end.

Taittinger on the Tube

I wish I had a photo. I love the Tube. I love Taittinger. How can I not love the boy drinking Taittinger on the Tube?

I was on my way home tonight - on one of the last Tubes I should probably mention (it's Monday) - and I saw some motion out of the corner of my eye. As engrossed as I was in Camus' The Fall I looked up to see what was happening, to be pleasantly greeted with the sight of a rather handsome-looking gentleman opening a brown leather wine case, lifting out a bottle of Taittinger and pouring himself a glass in a glass champagne flute.

Nicely done. Not crystal - which obviously would be a little OTT for the Tube - but a decent Sainsbury-variety glass flute.

Not being a doyen of discretion, he soon noticed my nonplussed stare and stared back. I broke the silence.

"Are you celebrating something," I inquired.

"Not really," he replied, looking a little embarrassed (which was kind of disappointing. I mean, if you're going to drink Taittinger on the Tube, at least have the decency to be proud of it!).

And then, he reached into that attractive leather case; his hand disappearing into that mysterious bag as I watched - captivated and curious - to see another flute appear.

"I've got another glass if you would like some too?"

What will I miss about Barcelona?

Old men and me

What is it about me that makes me a magnet for old bachelors? The other day I was quietly reading in the park when an old man came up to tell me I was "guapa". Many times. He was 74, and I know this because he told me. He plonked himself down next to me and we talked for ages. Correction. He talked for ages. I told him I was just learning Spanish, but it didn't stop him nor did it slow him down.

He just happened to have some photos of himself from when he was young - 15 and 23. He told me about how he'd lived in many parts of Spain and how he was a real ladies' man, he was guapo! And then, don't miss this, while he'd never married, he'd had six women in his bed! Interesting. That's when I said: "Tengo que ir ahora." (I have to go now.)

Oh well, at least he didn't go in for the kiss like my old mate in Turkey! Thank goodness for small blessings, huh?

Friday night in Calle Petrarca

Barcelona-drunk

I am drunk on Barcelona, on the richness of life, on the siesta, late rises, Gaudi, good weather, buildings, bike lanes and cava. Cava, cava, cava. It's cheap, it's yummy, it's splendid!

And to top it all off, last night I found the original Champaneria! It exists. There are two! In what other city could you find two champanerias quite like these? I defy you to tell me. But first, let me take you to these ones first. Please.

People spill out onto the pavements and drink cava out of old-fashioned champagne glasses - not flutes, but real glasses - you know the ones with the wide brim and short body? Of course you do, the ones with which you can tell how drunk you are by how much of each glass goes into your mouth compared to onto your dress? (Or more unpopularly, onto your mate's new shoes?)

You must buy food with your bottle of cava (you may buy cava by the glass, but this is a rare event and should be avoided if possible) and there is such a delicious selection - bocadillos galore and a selection of cooked Spanish sausage is highly recommended. What is not recommended is for vegetarians to visit. It's all meat and cava. Nothing else. But for what more could a girl ask?

Human Rights

Today I read the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. I mean, I actually sat down and read it from top to bottom. It made me feel proud and angry and sad. And outraged. In fact, it was the phrase using that word in the preamble that got me so emotional.

"Whereas disregard and contempt for human rights have resulted in barbarous acts which have outraged the conscience of mankind..."

What happened to that outrage? Where is our outrage for what is happening in Iraq or Lebanon? Do we have any left? Or is that outrage reserved for people we can relate to - for rich people who live in Western countries, who don't go to church and like to have a beer with their curry? Is that why 32 American university kids inspire more sympathy than civilians dying in Iraq in a war they didn't ask for? Or maybe it's just because they're not as pretty as Maddy McCann.

I think we need to be outraged more.

Read it.

I rode on the road

Progress! I rode on the road and cut my journey in half! It was so much better than dodging errant pedestrians on the boulevard bike lanes. It was exhilarating! I was riding so fast and feeling so good giving knowing nods to other passing bike riders. You can go so far without stopping I even worked up a sweat. I am loving being a biker! Anyone have a bike they want to sell me in London? I honestly don't know why everyone doesn't have a bike!

The do's and don'ts of biking attire

I can honestly say this is a fashion topic that has never crossed my mind. Until today, that is. And it happened all of a sudden. Since it became clear that I wasn´t going to be able to buy a bike here, I registered for the City´s bicing scheme - they have bikes at metro stations and you pick them up from one station and drop them off at one near where you´re going. It´s great!

So today I was riding along, happy as can be; the sun shining down, wind in my face, humming along to Belle and Sebastian while admiring the gorgeous architecture of Barcelona, when suddenly my skirt blew up right into my face and the oncoming crowd got the shock of their lives! I nearly fell off my bike. Literally. So did they. Not literally.

I wasn´t in a quiet street. I was right by la Sagrada Familia. It´s 24 degress today. It´s May. It´s Barcelona. There were people everywhere! I started to look around. All the other bike riders were wearing trousers. There´s a girl! Yep, shorts. Another one, cargoes. Another - three-quarter length pants. Is this a rule that everyone knew except me? Why didn´t it occur to me that it wouldn't be a good idea to ride a bike in a skirt? I eventually spottted another girl in a skirt. She was also wearing boots and tights, which is not appropriate for this weather. I figured this may be her version of "leathers" and that she'd take them off when she got to her destination. Her skirt wasn´t blowing up in her face. It provided little consolation.

It took me a long time to get to school today. I tried everything. First I simply tried to sit on the skirt. Didn´t work - you do actually move around on that seat. Next I took my pony tail out and used the elastic to tie the front and back on my skirt together. The bundle was too big to sit on and before long I realised that to onlookers it looked like I had a "package" (at best; at worst it looked like I was riding along with a ... I don´t think I can write it in a public place). So I put my hair back up and rode slowly.

What should have been a 20-minute ride took me an hour. This was compounded by the fact I had no idea where I was going. I was sure I knew exactly where I was going. This is a bad combination. I rode for 20 minutes in the wrong direction before I smelled a rat. I didn´t understand - the route from class is so easy! My slow journey was further compounded by the fact that I made huge diversions in order not to veer off the bike paths and onto the road with the scary traffic. Luckily I anticipated there may be some directional problems and left myself quite a bit of time. I still got to class in time!

I've lost it

My ability to get drunk and recover, that is. Hoy tengo resaca. I went out last night and couldn't get up to go to school today. I did get home at 4am, but classes don't start until 2.30. This may have had something to do with drinking rose cava from a bowl with strawberries in at my Swedish classmates' flat. I can't say how much I actually drank of that scrumptious concoction, but I didn't think I was drunk! On the other hand, when I was going through my photos today and discovered that I'd taken one of Simon, I thought I may actually have been a little tipsy. Simon was a guy I met at the bar at 13 after the party. He whispered in my ear, "I'll have a pint of lager please," and I yelled back: "I'm not English!". To which he said in his most exquisitely camp English voice - oh how I miss that - "You are so - you've got it written all over you darling." I guess it's closer than Russian. Anyway Sie and I got talking for more than half an hour until we realised that we were very thirsty and weren't being served because we were so deep in conversation. I vaguely remember agreeing to meet him there again. Maybe on Saturday? Apparently 13 is my new favourite bar in Barcelona!

Anyway friends, meet Sie.

I went to the Gold Coast

But in Spain, on the Mediterranean, not on the Pacific.

And not being one to learn from my mistakes, I packed two dresses, two skirts, a bikini, a hat, sunscreen and no practical trousers for the four-day weekend. We awoke on the first day to a massive thunderstorm, and it was cold. The BBC weather website had predicted as much but I didn’t believe it. Sometimes my overwhelming optimism isn’t such a good thing.

Luckily, we were staying at Meri’s parents holiday house so I could borrow some of her brother-in-law’s trousers (the rest of the family being too small/short for me to fit into anything of theirs). Luckily, I say, until you saw me in them paired with my socks and sandals (well, thongs anyway). To improve the look I changed into my Spanish loafers. I looked German.

We’d been partying in Sitges the evening before we got to Cunit so I did have my gorgeous new black three-quarter capri pants. These are supposed to be for “good” but when the rain finally stopped and we were braving the cold I had no choice but to wear them. I just couldn’t be mistaken for a German: being asked if I’m Russian once a week is just about as much as I can handle!

On the one day it was hot enough to wear my skirts and dresses I went out in my capris and trainers. I then had to strip down to my singlet and wear a scarf to protect my head from the sun. There were no prizes for best dressed given out that day. I had guiri written all over me!

But we still had loads of fun. We hired bikes and rode around the delta Eibre. This is supposed to be a magnificent place, with a diverse and exotic wildlife. The bike route takes you past viewing houses from which you can watch the birds without disturbing them. The pictures looked wonderful. Unfortunately, all the unseasonal rain had messed things up a bit at the delta. It was mainly dirty, ugly and lacking in the flamencos we were promised.
Still, we had quite a laugh about it and did see some nice birds. And, the bike ride was good! We also went to Tarragona (one of the most important Roman cities), which was interesting. We went with two friends of Meri’s who were such a good laugh and it was good practice for my Spanish, although I doubt they would say the same about me because I was mute for hours at a time. You probably won’t believe me, but when I was lost for words, I just fell asleep. Is that rude?

I have to say though, the highlight of the trip had to be Meri’s parents’ cooking! Buenisimo! I am salivating thinking about her dad’s bocadillos and her mum’s stuffed peppers, paella and tortilla de patates.

Excuse me now, I have to eat.

(I chose a pretty picture of Meri on the pretty part of the bike ride at the Delta)

Leisure by W.H. Davies

WHAT is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?—
No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows:

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

The Facebook Skit

I won't implicate anyone here, but you know who you are - and you've come close...

I think too much

I had my palm read today. It was in Spanish, but I understood every word. Here's why:

I am complicated. I think about things a lot. I am very sentimental. I don't fall in love easily. I'm not very romantic. I am always thinking. I need to take care because I am going to have some bad luck.

On a brighter note, I am very intelligent!

In heaven the cooks are French

I read something funny today:

In heaven the cooks are French, the police are British, the mechanics are German, the lovers are Italian and everything is organised by the Swiss; in hell the cooks are British, the police are German, the mechanics are French, the lovers are Swiss and everything is organised by the Italians.

Dia del Libro

"It's a day of thoughts and feelings and love," Meri explains as we walk through the crowded streets of Barrio Gotica on St Jordi's Day - or Dia del Libro. It's a fabulous day. A day for lovers, a day for friends, a day for literature, a day for Cataluña. And Catalans were out in hordes to celebrate today. There's a gene that ensures they know how to celebrate such festivals, and this festival is one of the best. It's a day that morphs the legend of St George with literary history. Did you know that both Cervantes and Shakespeare died on 23 April? And that in the Catalan legend of St Jordi, out of the slain dragon's blood grew a rose bush? That St George picked one of those roses for the princess he had saved?

On St Jordi's Day, men buy their princesses a rose and women buy their heroes a book. (It's also perfectly acceptable to buy your boyfriend/husband a book, of course.) It's the Catalan answer to St Valentine's Day. But a day with a meaning, and soul. And of course, the princesses get books too these days, thankfully, because in my opinion, there is no better gift than a good book. But it's not only about gifts, it's about sharing your thoughts and feelings with the people you care about. Lovers write poetry and send letters (or emails). It's a day for friends and family as well as lovers. I bought the loves of my life (Harry and Angus) a book each and my flatmate Ivan bought me a rose. I got a signed copy of Anonimos by writer and poet Eduardo Mazo. It's a collection of his philosophical quips that have made him famous along La Rambla. His message reads: 'A Gabriele, con alegria y libertad!' (With happiness and freedom!)

And that's just how I felt today, happy and free.

There were booksellers and rose vendors galore. Book stalls were set up in every plaza, roses were sold on every street corner. The city was packed. Authors from all over the country were out to sign books, and bread made to look like the Catalan flag was the order of the day. At one stall, if you stood at a lecturn and read a passage from Don Quixote to the crowd, you got a free copy. And so the crowd heard all day about the wonderful adventures of that most famous knight errant. Having just started part two myself, I was captivated by this stall, although my understanding of the Spanish was hazy at best.

I recently read a couple of lines from the poem 'Leisure' by Welsh poet W.H. Davies:
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Today I felt like I took the time to stand and stare. And it felt good. In a way I guess that's what I've been doing these past months, but it takes a day like today to make me thankful for having done so. I'll end with an attempt to translate the prologue of my new book:
"Habia una vez una historia esperando suceder."
Once upon a time a story was waiting to happen.

Ouch

I went bike riding yesterday and today I am feeling the pain. It's an effort to sit down and post this entry, but apparently you get used to it, so I am going to stick with the bike plans. I haven't bought my bike yet. A few things are getting in my way, such as money and getting it from Barcelona to London. I know I can take it on the plane, but who will carry it to and from the airport for me? Any takers? So while I work out the logisitics of buying a bike in Spain, we hired bikes. It was such a beautiful day and we rode down to the beach and along the port. I can't wait to have my own to soak up all this sunshine riding around this glorious city! Only I think next time, I'll ride in smaller doses, you know, build up a resistance.

Heels but no dress

Just in case you were on the edge of your seat waiting to hear what my decision on Saturday night's outfit was, it was this: I wore the shoes but not the dress. Meri said I looked like a guiri, which is a rather uncomplimentary term for foreigners. The Spanish aren't known for being politically correct. Being an Amazonian (in Spanish terms) redhead, I pretty much stand out as a guiri anyway, so I don't know how the dress would have made a difference, but it was a bit chilly, and I started thinking about Northerners in their mini-skirts in January and all Brits in their best summer gear as soon as the temperature reaches 18 degrees, and so I took her advice. I wore jeans. (And I wasn't even the tallest person in the bar, thanks to the Englishman responsible for Wednesday night's cava-induced amnesia. Great that the English are good for something other than losing at cricket - being taller than me in a Spanish bar!)

To wear high heels or not to: the hard decisions of a bakcpacker who is no longer a backpacker

Yes, that is what I am doing. Sitting at home trying to decide what to wear tonight. I am feeling quite in the mood to get "dressed up". I even went to the mercado and bought nail polish and painted my toenails for the first time since 10 March. Wow, huh? I feel like I should mark the occasion by wearing the pair of high heels I packed and traipsed all over the countryside and never wore. Of course wearing high heels would put me about a metre above Meri and ensure I was considerably taller than most of the Spanish men in the Champaneria we're going to. But then, I am taller than them in flatties too so what's the difference? Never stopped Nicole.

Aside: Yes, I did say 'champaneria', and yes, it's heaven on earth. Who wants to open a champaneria with me back in Old London town? I'd be drunk all night and life would be wonderful. Of course, I did have a run-in with the cava earlier this week when a few hazy things happened that I can't quite remember, and I didn't think a life of perpetual champagne-drunkeness would be a perfect existence the following day as I fought my hangover trying to speak Spanish in class, but then - what the hell - I had fun!

Anyway, back to me and my shoes. I think I have decided to take the plunge into glamour by wearing them. I have red toenails after all, and what are red toenials without gold stilletoes? But that brings me to another problem. When I packed my gold high heels I didn't pack anything that actually goes with gold high heels other than a couple of dresses. Shall I wear a dress too or is it all just OTT! Oh dear, decisions, decisions. I need counselling. Help!

What do you think? Is it too much?

Yes, I'm buying a bike

Now for those of you not on Facebook (why?) you may not know that my announcement to buy a bike has met with some ridicule. Some of these people are in no position to be throwing stones if you ask me, but you didn't, so I won't go on.

I went to the Cataluyna Bike Show today. Geneally speaking I find anything with 'Cataluyna' in the title quite annoying because it means everything will be in Catalan, which is not helpful for my ability to learn Spanish. But, today was fun! I got totally into it and now I'm really excited about it all. I am going to ride to class every day and Meri and I are even going to go riding in the Pyrenees for her birthday weekend. OK, apart from my test drive today, I haven't riden a bike in about five years, and that wasn't exactly the best experience, but it really wasn't my fault. Let me explain.

When Mum came to visit me when I lived in New York, we went to Martha's Vineyard for a couple of days. Mum had this great idea to hire bikes and ride around the island. Great! So we picked up our bikes, I grabbed my hat, and we set off. About half way in the 25 minute journey from Oak Bluffs to Edgartown, Mum demanded my hat.

"But you didn't want a hat because you just blow dried your hair this morning," I replied.
"Yes, but I didn't realise it was so hot and my head is getting sunburnt. Let's share," she smiled.

I didn't get it back.

After lunch Janet and I wanted to carry on riding, but Mum had decided she'd had enough and set off to find a taxi that would carry her bike so she could make it to the Oak Bluffs dress shop before it closed. She couldn't find a willing driver, unbeknown to Janet and I, who had a lovely time checking out Chappaquiddick (of Ted Kennedy fame) and rode back to town, sun on our face, wind in our hair, enjoying the lovely ride and me fantasising about buying a bike back in NYC. But Mum hadn't been seen at the bike hire shop. Nor at the dress shop. After about three hours we rock up to the police station freaking out and telling them that Mum has a heart condition and we need to send out a search party. They told us to go back to our hotel and wait calmly. But even they seemed a little worried and got on those walkie-talkie thingys quick smart, giving descriptions, including the shoes she was wearing (presumably they were also picturing her head down in a ditch with just her feet in view, sticking up by the roadside!).

A little while later Mum appeared (in my hat), stormed in, grabbed her wallet to pay for the taxi that eventually agreed to take her and her bike, and I won't repeat the exchange of words that then took place. It seems she'd eventually found a taxi but only after riding to the other side of the island (through the centre rather than along the coast, which is the way we went) and being helped by a 70-year-old fellow bike enthusiast. When Mum had calmed down, I asked her if she'd noticed, on her three-hour journey inland, that there was no longer ocean beside the path she was on. After all, we'd only riden from one coastal town to the next...along it! She replied that she'd "smelled a rat" after about half an hour, but by that time she was well and truly lost.

Needless to say, we didn't hire bikes again, and my fantasy about buying a bike died. Let's face it, I couldn't even afford the metro. I walked everywhere anyway so it's not like I needed the exercise.

Anyway, I don't think that experience need determine my next one. I was fine on the bike. I loved it. And I am pretty damn sure I'll love it again! All my other memories of riding bikes are great! I used to hoon around to Helen's place on my BMX. I was a BMX bandit Goddamnit and I will be again (not a BMX one though).

I'm slightly worried about riding in the mountains though, and on the roads, but how hard can it be? I'm sure it's just a case of getting used to it, and since Meri is also a novice, we can learn together! It's always fun when you're learning with someone. So watch this space for further news of my biking endeavours.

The picture is of the bike I want to buy, minus the basket I will put on it for convenience.

You've gotta love the Germans

Watch this.

http://media.theage.com.au/?rid=27170&sy=age&source=blogs.theage.com.au%2Flifestyle%2Fsamandthecity%2Farchives%2F2007%2F04%2Fsam_and_the_cit_12.html

I have nothing more to say.

Ten reasons to go to my Spanish lessons

1. So I can go to the free Mac workshops in Barcelona (obviously).
2. So when I get pulled over by undercover cops and accused of buying cocaine, I can defend myself.
3. So when I break a glass jar of asparagus in a deserted aisle in the supermercado I can actually tell someone what I've done and not just point, shrug my shoulders, say "perdona" a lot and skulk out of there.
4. So I don't have to rely on the pictures on the front of cleaning products to know what to buy.
5. So, after buying draino (thanks to good picture on bottle) I can read the instructions and not just guess that Bindi's advice to "pour some down the drain, wait for half an hour and rinse" is correct, and then have product turn to concrete and block the drain more than it already was. At least water could actually get down it before. (Are there lessons in how not to take Bindi's advice?)
5, part 2: So I don't have to type draino instructions one by one into a dodgy translation website in an effort to find some way of salvaging the concrete stuck in the drain because I am too scared to tell Meri what I've done on my third day in her house.
6. So I can understand if I'm being picked up - either in a club or on a street corner by a kid on a school excursion (surely not?). Believe me, it's not enough to understand "guapa" and the numbers. While speaking and understanding the numbers is very good for giving out your phone number, it provides little in the way of interesting conversation while actually on the phone.
7. So I can lie about my age (think I may have already mastered this one, mind you.)
8. So when my friend is being mugged I can morph into the devil and yell at the attackers in words they understand.
9. So I can understand all of the menu and not just "go for it" when ordering in a restaurant. (Not all good restaurants have English menus. In fact, the fewer tourists the better in most decent Barcelona eateries - they do their best to drive you out.)
10. So I buy chicken, and not turkey, when I mean to buy chicken at the supermercado.

Spanish dancing lessons

(Muchos gracias and muchos besitos to Nick for helping me figure out the audio track for your enjoyment.)

We're back!

Fully recovered from our illness, we were back in form on Saturday night, and didn't Barcelona know it! The evening started eventfully and we knew we were in for a good'un.

Having stopped on a corner to consult my map as to which direction we had to go in, a strange man stopped me to ask for directions. Since I am so good at the numbers I stood there busily counting out the streets he had to cross to get to his destination, when suddenly a police badge is shoved under my nose and then muchos shouting began. When Bindi and I stood there staring with looks resembling deaf mutes, they asked us if we were English. We said yes (it was easier) and we think they then accused us of buying cocaine from said strange man. Then I think, and I only think this because only every second word was coming out in English, they said we should be careful in Barcelona because we may think we're buying cocaine but bad men sell us heroin and (other things in Spanish) instead.

What?

Still standing stuck to the ground looking like deaf mutes we all of a sudden started shouting, "No, no. We're not buying cocaine, we're giving directions."

The undercover cops in Barcelona are not a friendly bunch. They were still yelling, demanding our passports.

Me: "I don't have it with me."
Bindi: "I don't have it with me."
UCC: "Show us your drivers' licence."
Me: "I don't have it with me."
UCC: "Give me your bag. What did you exchange with that man?"
Me: "Nothing."
UCC: "Give me your purse."
Me: "I don't have it with me." (My wallet does not fit in my new teensy, gorgeous little Marc Jacobs handbag (thanks Fran and Ross)).
Bindi: "Oh no, I forgot to bring my wallet. I have no wallet."
UCC: "What money were you giving him? What did you get from him. Give me your bag."
Bindi: "Oh no, we have to go home. I've got no money."
Me: "Here's my handbag, take it, there's no cocaine."
Me (to myself): "Sh!t, sh!t, sh!t! There's no cocaine, is there? Did he put it in? What was he doing while I was counting the streets?"
Bindi: "I don't have my purse."
UCC: Searching through our bags: "lots of things in Spanish".
Bindi: We have to go home. I don't have my purse."
UCC: Still more yelling in Spanish/English.

They let us go with lots of other warnings and advice that we didn't really understand. Meanwhile said strange man has done a runner and no one is yelling after him. Weird.

So, after we go home to get Bindi's wallet, we set off again on a different route, to meet Meri for dinner. And we had some yummy traditional Catalan food and no wait staff stole my plate before I'd finished eating. Muy bien!

But the biggest adventures of the night came in a club where we went to meet Meri's colleague and his mates. For the Sydney crew, this place was just like Minsky's. Why do posh boys look the same the world over? You can spot them a mile away. I tell you what, Ralph Lauren has a lot to answer for, and so do the schools that educate these boys - start instilling a little imagination please! Anyway for the crew not from Sydney, the crowd was a mix of middle-age desperadoes, posh boys with collars up and v-neck jumpers and girls trying to get lucky with the posh boys. It was ace!

We danced the night away to Spanish and Latin American music and even got a few lessons on how to do the moves. It was so funny I've made a movie of it, so look out here. I will post it as soon as I can fix the audio track.

(Nick - write back to me about the audio track please!)

NB: Can you guess which aforementioned type the man in the pic is?

Settling in sin food

We spent the whole 16-hour journey from Fes to Malaga salivating over what we would eat when we got back to Spain. We adored the tagine and cous cous - never have I tasted cous cous so light and fluffy - but since we had to eat it for every meal because people had scared us so much about bugs and only eating cooked food, we were looking forward to some salad. There was that time we slipped up and ordered a tomato salad. And our 16-course banquet in Fes also included many salads as well as the tagine and cous cous, so I don't know why we were so eargerly anticipating a salad. We were also seriously craving some vino and a cerveza and these cravings seemed to be affecting all the other cravings.

It was a beautiful day in Malaga. We had lunch (Russian salad) and a couple of cervezas. In the evening we got some vino tinto, queso and chorizo and had a little supper on the balcony overlooking a concert in the plaza. In the night time I vomitted everything I had eaten in the past week back up in the unisex communal toilets. Who knows what it was, but it wasn't good. (I suspect it was the out-of-date icecream we had in some dodgy caravan park bus stop but I can't seem to get any corroboration on this.)

Thankfully, we had chosen the pension we were staying at by the Lonely Planet's advice that it was "immaculately clean". We needed something clean after the mildew-infested Fes euphemism. There, I thought I was going to vomit because of the smell. It's hard to weigh up whether you brush your teeth and risk throwing up in the sink as you do so, thereby defeating the purpose of brushing your teeth, or just go without. In the evening I went without, but in the morning I just couldn't go any longer. Have you ever tried to brush your teeth without breathing? It's not an easy endeavour.

Anyway, back to Malaga: I used my very little Spanish to book us a room with a bathroom. The owner/receptionist/laundry person (I saw her ironing the sheets!) doesn't know one word of English. I know the numbers in Spanish and about three others: habitacion, por favor, bano. It got us a room with two beds, a shower and a basin. But no toilet. For once, praise be to God, the Lonely Planet was spot on. As I spent the night hugging that porcelain in the unisex communal toilets all I could think of was: "Thank you Lonely Planet. I forgive you for not printing the number of the Brigade Touristique. Thank you kind lady for keeping your place immaculately clean. I am sorry I am messing it all up."

It went all night long but stopped just in time for us to leave for the airport at 6am, which is about when it started for Bindi. We got to Barcelona and slept all day. Poor Meri. We'd been looking so forward to seeing each other. Whatever we had it didn't want to go away and so we spent our first week in Barcelona being quite sick, eating bland food and feeling pretty sorry for ourselves.

On Thursday, we finally felt well enough to go out for a menu del dia. We found a lovely little place on the beach with no English menu and took a punt on what we were ordering. It was fab. We enjoyed every mouthful. I was savouring the last taste of my main course, soaking it up in the fresh bread when an overly keen waiter came and efficiently swiped away my plate.

"Do you know how long it's been since I've enjoyed a meal?" I would have shouted if I wasn't so stunned! Then, Barcelona isn't known for its friendly service, is it? Welcome to Spain.

Calle Computer Geek 42

Translation: 42 Computer Geek Street. That's where I live now. These are my flatmates Meri (whom most of you know) and Ivan. The best thing about our Barcelona flat is the harmonious way we all go about staying up til all hours sitting at our computers. I feel so at home.

The best thing about it all is that now I have so much spare time I am discovering so many new, geeky things to do with my beloved Mac. I literally cannot wait to get back to London so I can go to the free workshops. They run them here too, but I figure my Spanish isn't good enough yet, especially since I missed my first lesson yestersday.

The worst thing about it is that I think I have become addicted to my computer. I missed my first class yesterday because I had to come home and finish the movie I was making about Saturday night (watch this space). OK, it was also pouring and I couldn't face going back out in the rain and I also had to go to Ikea with Meri to get some slats for my bed. But really, if I am honest, I probably would have gone back to the class if it weren't for the unfinished movie. I am definitely going to class today, if only to learn enough to be able to go to the free Mac workshops here so that I can actually finish my movie.

(I am having trouble with the audio track - any experts contact me please.)

Anyway, better go and get back to my movie-making.

Holy sh!t: eight hours in Fes

I’ve just spent the past hour or so looking at photos from Australia. I am homesick. I want to go home. England isn’t home enough for the way I feel right now. I want to go home.

This is what Fes has done to us. We’re broken women. We don’t want to be leered at, sworn at, spat at, told we’re pretty or called “fish and chips” anymore. We don’t want to be fleeced by one more Moroccan; lost in one more medina; eat any more tagine or cous cous. The love affair with Morocco is over. We’re going home. Or at least to Spain, which is a step in the right direction.

Shall I start from the beginning?

We arrived in Fes just after midday on the train from Marrakech. Bindi and I say our goodbyes to a nice couple we met on the train and leave the station walking confidently toward the road saying, “No, no” to every person asking us if we want a taxi.

Before too long we realise there aren’t that many taxis on the main road because they are all driving into the station car park; so remembering our Marrakech experience (OK, the driver may have had to pray for his taxi to start but at least he didn’t rip us off, and we met him in the station car park!) we say: “Oh, well, we may as well get in one of these.” And as luck would have it, right at that moment an English-speaking gentleman kindly asks us if we need a taxi. We say: “Yes please.”

We start walking toward the road, and I ask: “Where is your taxi?”
“I’ll flag you one,” he nonchalantly replies.

Alarm bells start ringing.
“Oh no, we’re going to have to pay him for this! We were already heading in this direction. Damn! I read not to fall for this trick.”

He must have heard the alarm bells going off in my head because he suddenly said: “I am from the Office of Tourism. It is my job to show people around the city. I can give you a tour of the medina for 70 dirham.”

“Shivers,” I think. “We’ve been had.”

Bindi gives me a knowing stare and asks: “Are we going to have to pay him for this?”
I’m not sure because he’s just mentioned the 70 dirham for the tour, which may mean that’s all he wants. Considering we paid 130 dirham each for some banal hop-on, hop-off tourist embarrassment in Marrakech, we agree this is a pretty good deal and ask for his card.

“Oh, I am coming in the taxi with you. You can’t find your hotel in the medina. It’s the largest living Islamic medieval city in the world. I’ll show you.”

Shivers.

Oh well, he seems nice enough, and we get out of the taxi, paying the 12 dirham he said it would cost and we follow him through a maze of narrow alleys, dark lanes, through market stalls and past artisans galore. We’re so lost. He’s right – there is no way we could have found this.

Wait a second! Bindi and I have the same thought: “Did he get the taxi to drop us off at a place so far away we would think we needed him?”

We’ll never know, because when we get to our hotel we do need him. We need him to get us right on out of there. Fast.

By this time though, our guide has changed. Our guide from the Office of Tourism introduces us to his friend (who knows where he came from?) and tells us his friend will show us to a better place. And in truth, it is nicer, but more expensive than where we stayed in Marrakech and not a patch on it. Still, 500 dirham a night seems OK for a room in a nice riad with a private bathroom, and private bathrooms are essential in Morocco. (The stench didn’t get to us until we were too tired to move later that night.)

By this time it’s a given we’re having the 70 dirham tour but Bindi and I are starving, so we agree to start after lunch. Our new guide offers to take us to a “nice place with very good food, and very cheap”.

Yipee! We need to save money now that we’re splashing out on accommodation.

Or not.

After about 20 minutes of following Guide No. 2 through the most bizarre lanes and alleys where the sun just can’t get in, we get to a fancy looking restaurant that’s called, originally, “Authentic Moroccan cuisine”.

Tourist trap! Tourist trap! Tourist trap!

We are so hungry however, we sit down quietly to eat. Guide No. 2 then says he’ll see us in an hour and disappears.

The menu arrives. We’re only given one menu and it’s enough food to feed an army for the set price of 160 dirham. Cheap? Cheap, my bottom, this is Morocco. We dined out for two days on that budget in Marrakech. When I ask for the standard menu the waiter suddenly doesn’t understand. And then I start to feel beads of sweat on my forehead.

Bindi asks: “Where are we?”

I reply: “What’s our hotel called?”

One of us kindly reminds the other: “They’ve got our passports and all our bags.”

Holy sh!t. I am absolutely freaking out by this stage. I remember reading something about the Tourist Police in Morocco and I think the Lonely Planet might have a number for them. I open it up to Fes and spot a heading: Dangers and annoyances. I read on: “Fes has long been notorious for its faux guides. This situation has improved with the introduction of a Brigade Touristique (Tourist Police). Still, high unemployment forces many to persist. A few hustlers hang about the train station and hotels…”

And yet despite this rather alarming warning, the sage publishers of Lonely Planet have not seen fit to include a phone number for the flipping Brigade Touristique. Alarm bells are not what is going off in my head right now. It’s more like an evacuation siren. Bindi seems rather calm though and I’m getting courage from her.

“It’s only about £10,” she says, thinking I am freaking out about the price of lunch.

She has a point. It could all just be about money. So what? It’s only money. We’ll pay Guide No. 2 to show us around, take us to our hotel, we’ll get our bearings, pay him whatever he wants and all will be fine. We’re temporarily calm.

“So, should we leave on the 8.30am bus tomorrow?”
“Yep.” There’s no hesitation.

Right, let’s get some perspective. The guides seem nice enough. Unemployment is high, they just want our money. Not our belongings. Besides, we’ve got all our valuables with us. And it’s not like they’re going to drag us down one of the 9,200 dark alleys of the medina and rob us, is it? Is it? This is too scary to say out loud. No, they’re nice. We’ll give them a tip!

Our hour is up. And the food was good, to be fair. More than we could ever, ever eat, but having paid the extortionate price of 160 dirham each for it, we wrap up four biscuits and shove a couple of bananas and oranges in our bags for dinner. The hour is well and truly past though and still no guide. Bindi isn’t so calm anymore. Her words, which went something along the lines of, “The minute our guide walks through that door will be the happiest moment of my life” did not feel comforting to me at that time.

The tourist trap doesn’t seem to be so much of a tourist trap anymore. No tourists in here really, just us, and quite a lot of wait staff.

Guide No. 2 shows up! Yipeeeeee! It is indeed a happy moment. We’re so relieved we see fit to complain about the bill. It doesn’t get us a reduction but we don’t want them to think we’re loaded, do we? We pay the flipping £10 and sit waiting for our change when we’re introduced to Guide No. 3. Another friend. He speaks better English. He will show us everything we want to see.

“What’s the name of our hotel?” we simultaneously shriek, and for once we’re not embarrassed about talking in synch.

“Don’t worry, we will show you, we will show you.”

Firmly: “No, we need to know. I need to write it down.”

Good sign: Guide No. 3 writes it down for us and explains where it is. Apparently it’s near some landmark. Which one, who knows? We just can’t get the Arabic language, (what happened to everyone speaking French, like in Marrakech?) but at least he is telling us what it’s called and that it is near something. If we ever find that bloody Brigade we’ll be able to tell them where our bags are.

Guide No. 3 actually turns out to be alright. He’s nice, a good guide and we’re so very encouraged that when the mysterious Brigade actually shows up on the street they know him, shake his hand and have a little chat. Phew, he’s legit! But then we notice the Brigade boys checking us out rather obviously. We’re covered in clothing from head to toe; in clothes that are on the not-so side of clean. Are they in the pay? No, 70 dirham isn’t enough to pay off anyone. No, no, we are OK. Now we’re confident. Woo hoo. We’re back on the chain gang.

We’re feeling pretty good about now. We trust Guide No. 3, the Tourist Police actually exist, and we’re seeing some amazing sites. The fact we haven’t seen another tourist for a couple of hours proves we’re getting our money’s worth.

Fes is famous for its crafts. Much of the traditional Berber and Moroccan goods you buy in Morocco and the West come from Fes. We’re invited inside factories to see goods being made. We see tea pots, plastering and woodwork. We even see Fez hats being made. It’s pretty cool. Then we go inside the carpet factory. A kind man explains a carpet from a kilim and shows us some of the traditional machinery men use to make the carpets. He invites us to sit down and drink some tea.

“No, no, thanks, we’re in a hurry. We’ve got to get to the bus station,” I politely reply.

Helpfully, Guide No. 3 tells us to sit down so the man can explain work from the different tribes. The bus station will be open all night – 24 hours.

Oh dear, have I faux pas’ed? I think perhaps it’s rude not to accept an offer of tea. So we sit down. And somehow, some way, I can’t tell you exactly how or why, because despite having discussed the course of events in detail with Bindi, neither of us can remember exactly how it happened: we bought kilims. And scarves!

We had no intention whatsoever. I do remember at one stage mentioning how I had regretted not buying a kilim in Turkey. That seemed to convince Bindi. I don’t know what convinced me. In truth, I never remember agreeing to buy it. I just remember being handed something all wrapped up and told to follow this man (a fourth guide?) to the cash machine.

Hey, wait a minute…. About 30 seconds ago, when Bindi asked if she could pay for her scarf on credit card, the kind man had replied: “Of course. We’re a government-run organisation, a legitimate business. Of course we take credit cards.”

I repeat these words to him.

“Yes, but that is when you were paying the right price. The price I sell these to you will ruin my reputation. I can’t have it known. No, I need cash for this price.”

So there we go, suckered into the lanes and alleys of the largest maze in the Islamic world. Leered at, stared at, yelled at and sworn at. All the way to the ATM that didn’t work and then again to one that did. To pay for carpets we didn’t want to buy with credit cards.

We’re out of money by this stage. We talk about what we’ve got left to spend because Bindi would like to buy some embroidered table linen. We don’t have much but we think it may be enough to buy some serviettes. We’re taken to an embroidery shop. Another kind man shows us how the linen is embroidered, and we watch the expert women working away at it. It’s very detailed work; we realise we really don’t have enough money for this.

By this time though, Kind Man No. 2 has got linen galore out on show for us. He’s flapping this one here, and ordering others to get some more. When I break the news about how much we’ve got to spend, he goes ballistic. I point out that I have been trying to tell him since we walked in we can’t buy anything today. He’s angry. I look around. Bindi is red in the face. Where is Guide No. 3? Nowhere to be seen! Not-so Kind Man No. 2 is obviously swearing in Arabic, but in English he says, “OK, not everybody buys every time.” And then he bangs something on the table, yells at his assistant, storms out of the shop and slams the door.

Oh my Lord. Where is Guide No. 3?

Nowhere to be seen. We just stand outside the shop waiting. We don’t know where to go. All our guides have told us many times throughout the day how many people get lost in the medina. Guide No. 3 knows an American who has lived there for 10 years and still gets lost. He has told us how it’s not safe for us to be out alone after dark. It’s getting dark.

Where is Guide No. 3?

Finally he shows up. We’re so tired, jaded and exhausted that we just want to go to the bus station and buy our tickets out of there. We no longer want to see the tannery. Being herded through labyrinthine lanes for five hours in a foreign, dark city thousands of years old is tiring. He agrees to end the tour and takes us to our hotel, and then shows us where to get the taxis to the Ville Nouvelle for the bus station. We take meticulous notes as to where we turn. “Come out of the hotel, turn left. Go to end, turn right. Turn left at lady selling soap. Left, right, left,” Bindi notes. There are no street signs in the medina.

So we give Guide No. 3 his 70 dirham, plus big tip, and get in a taxi for the bus station. It’s closed. I thought it was open 24 hours? Go figure.

We manage to work out, however, that a bus does indeed leave at 8.30am and the ticket office opens at 8am. Despite being intermittently optimistic and overall pleased with our tour, there’s nothing that will stop us getting the first bus out of there.

And so we have an early night.

Watch some Marrakech madness

Brekkie in Marrakech

Blinded by the lights

Well, not the lights so much as the souks. Oops. Bindi and I each spent more money today than we’ve spent in the entire time in Granada. And Morocco is supposed to be one of the cheapest places on earth! We fell in love with Marrakech and it broke our hearts.

And we broke some pretty sacred backpacking rules along the way. I am ashamed to relate them here.

Backpacking rule no. 1: Thou shall not buy from first store you see
But the leather was so nice! And Marrakech was so exciting! And I needed a sachtel to carry my laptop in. And we bargained him down by 200Dh - from 1200 to 1000!

Rule no. 2: Thou shall not accept anything more than half of the original price asked for in a Marrakech souk
Yeah, we learnt that lesson pretty fast.

Rule no. 3: Thou shall never, under any circumstances, catch a hop-on, hop-off City Sightseeing tour bus
If anyone with any standing in the backpacking community reads this, we will surely be excommunicated. We're embarrassed, we were embarrassed at the time, but we spent all morning looking for a map of Marrakech with no luck and we didn't know where to start or how to get to the places we wanted to see. OK, we went into two shops, but neither of them had one, and we were so overwhelmed! If you could see Jemaa el Fna - the main market, which is right where we were staying - you would understand. It's filled with cars, bikes (even though it doesn't appear to actually be a road), snake charmers, story tellers, people selling anything or just trying to get in your photos so that you will have to pay them, and hundreds of men in carts selling freshly squeezed orange juice all yelling at you, yelling something in Arabic or French, who can tell? It's so loud, so obnoxious, so exciting! But a little OTT after a whole night on a train. We needed to just get our bearings, and the bus seemed to be a good way.

Rule no. 4: Thou shall never stay on a bus when every other person gets off
When I asked Bindi why she thought everyone else was getting off the bus, she said it was because they were all sheep. Not wanting to be a sheep, I shut up and stayed put.... for the next two hours while we repeated the tour we'd just been on, which, incidentally, did not pass our stop. (However, should anyone wish to go on a tour of Marrakech I give a pretty good one. Or, should you wish to know about the palm tree forest and how Marrakech gets its water, just ask. Or for that matter, should you wish to know the significance of the palm tree to all the monotheistic religions, I'd be happy to oblige. Did you know that the medina wall in Marrakech is 10m high and 9km wide? It's made of the red clay common in the region and limestone. Should you go, you will notice the holes in the wall that are common in that kind of architecture.

How embarrassing.

Rule no. 5: Thou shall not go to the ATM more than three times in one day
I don't think this is necessarily a sacred rule of backpacking. I think it's more a sacred rule of living. Going to the ATM to get more cash four times in one day should be a pretty good indication that you're spending too much money.

Rule no. 6: Though shall not go to a private hammam
Anyone who has heard my story of the hammam in Turkey will understand that this needs to be told in private. Needless to say, we got ripped off.

Rule no. 7: Thou shall not wear a sign on one's forehead reading: "Shysters apply here"
At least that's how we felt by the end of day, so we went to bed at 8pm and slept. We were pretty sure we couldn't spend any money doing that.

A prayerful start

So we arrived in Marrakech safe and sound. We found a taxi driver who spoke English and seemed to be offering us a reasonable fare to our hotel. We'd read that you must confirm the price before getting into the taxi, and we were pretty pleased with ourselves for having achieved this.

But where was his taxi?

"Over here, over here," he says. We can see a long line of parked cars but no official taxi.

"Where," we insist. "Is it an official taxi?"

"Yes, yes. Here it is."

And sure enough there was an official taxi parked on the side of the road. Phew. We get in and the man bows his head toward the steering wheel.

"Oh," I think, "he must be praying before our journey. That's nice. I feel safe being with such a religious man."

The prayer though seems to be coinciding with some screechy noises coming from the engine. And it's going on for a bit longer than the "bless us on this journey" type prayer I'd imagined. So I lean over and follow his line of sight. It's squarely placed on the ignition, with which he seems to be having an almighty fight. And losing.

Oh my goodness, he was praying for his car to start?

If I wasn't so loaded down with my bags I would have been out of there so fast he wouldn't have seen me. Unfortunately, or fortunately, Bindi was oblivious to the praying and the fighting with the ignition since she was sitting behind him. I am trying to tell her when he gets out of the car, lifts his bonnet, shuffles around in there and woosh, the car starts!

We crack up laughing. I mean, it's better than freaking out, right? He looks at us and asks what we're laughing at. Is he serious? Anyway, we're on our way, there's no stopping that car now, that's for sure! And we arrive safely, so someone's prayers worked.

Thanks, St. Chris

As I mentioned a few weeks' back, I've been very thankful for my 13 years of Catholic schooling during this holiday. St. Christopher is most surely looking after us. We even considered going to Church to thank him, but then thought we wouldn't understand the Mass in Spanish. While 13 years' of Catholic schooling should pretty much guarantee you know what's going on no matter the language, it's been about 13 years since I've been, so we're still thinking about it.

Anyway, we know St. Christopher is looking out for us because there he was on the Spanish shore of Tarifa waving us goodbye as we headed for Tangier. A few things had happened between Sevilla and the ferry to confirm he was on our side.

As I've said, we spent so long trying to plan our trip to Morocco that seeing Sevilla was highly compromised. We had originally planned to get the bus to Algerciras, ferry to Tangier and then train or bus to Fes, then Marrakech and perhaps Casablanca if we had time. Many people warned us against just doing Fes and Marrakech. In one friendly (friendlier to Bindi if you know what I mean ;-) ) Englishman's words, we would get the "biggest head f**k of our lives" if we went straight to Fes or Marrakech. Plus, he said, there is more to Morocco than the cities, much more. They're the worst part.

What did he know anyway? He picked Bindi up by saying "room" a lot. (That's all it takes Englishman: she loves that accent, especially when you say "room", so get ready!) Hardly the font of all knowledge, right? So we decided to stick to our plan and go to straight to the cities.

Until....another helpful man - German this time - told us we could get a Eurolines bus all the way from Sevilla to Fes and not have to deal with the nightmare of Tangier. Excellent! The website seemed to confirm this. We'd met a 19-year-old French Canadian boy who was also planning to travel to Morocco so we decided to take him under our wings and share our excellent local knowledge. He was so pleased and came with us to the bus station, where that rumour was well and truly nipped in the bud. So we went on to the next bus station. No joy. And then I thought I'd found a brochure which meant we could get the bus in the night instead of the morning. And then we found out that was wrong too. By this time Felix was shaking his head, leaving us for dead and sticking to his own original plans. There goes our French interpreter!

So, we made the brave decision to take one step at a time. There was too much detail in what we were trying to plan, so we made an agreement to plan one leg of the journey at a time. All we needed to do therefore was to get to Algerciras. Easy. Six buses a day from Sevilla. Since that was so easy, I even looked up the train times from Tangier to Marrakech and as luck would have it, we could get a night train that night! Right, we packed up and took off to the bus station, got on the bus, and were very happy with ourselves.

As we were pulling into Algerciras a friendly Spanish man started chatting to us in English and asked us where we were going. We told him, and he was also going to Tangier so we said we would follow him. He and his colleague then so pleasantly organised our ferry tickets in order to get the fast ferry to make it for the train, bought us a coffee, took us to the bus, got us on the ferry and told us all about how one of their sons had studied in Sydney. Ah, it's great to live in a world where everyone loves Australians.

Then, en route to the ferry, we found two Canadian girls also planning to travel to Marrakech on the night train. And they spoke French! Perfect. It was a wonderful journey on the ferry as Team Commonwealth planned our assualt on Tangier so that we could make it to the station in time for the overnight train. And anyway, if we didn't make it, by this time we had discovered that our Spanish mates, Juan and Tony, owned a hotel in Tangier and they had told us we could stay there if we got stuck. We didn't find out about the other hotel in Ibiza or the yacht club and seafood restaurant in Tangier until we got there. What we would have done for a big meal in a nice restaurant...We'd just spent our last euros filling up on pizza and pringles in order not to starve, or worse still, have to buy food on the train in Morocco! Why didn't we ask them what they did before now?!

So Juan and Tony got us out of the port in Tangier headed in the direction of the legitimate taxis, waved us goodbye and Team Commonwealth set off on a mission to get the overnight train. And we did it! Oh, how we love Canadians. We all felt so much better having found other people on the same mission, and Bindi and I felt so safe to have some French speakers with us. We ended up getting a couchette in first class for about £20 - not bad considering that was also a night's accommodation. And to be honest I would not have wanted to share such a small cabin with people I didn't know. Especially since - and unfortunately for the team - I remembered a story Dave had told me just as we were dosing off to sleep. Apparently, while travelling on a train in Italy some kind of gas had been sprayed into his cabin in order to make the inhabitants fall asleep so as all their wordly belongings could be stolen!

Is that story true Dave?

In any case, I was pretty unpopular for having told it, and we all slept with our passports and money down our pants. But we made it - with all our belongings and not starving to death!

A few tips from Sevilla

Once in our dresses we grew to love this city. It’s aesthetically beautiful – the people and the architecture - and has perhaps the most magnificent cathedral I’ve ever seen. The Alcazar Real also looked pretty amazing. Unfortunately we didn’t get to go in because our Sevilla stay was severely hijacked by trying, and trying again, to organise our trio to Morocco. Our back and forth holiday was spent going back and forth to the bus station in Sevilla.

Anyway, back to the tips: Bar Europa has the best tapas I’ve ever eaten. It’s fine dining tapas and way beyond our budget, but we savoured every taste. It’s in the old city in Plaza Jesus de la Pasion. Bigger tip: if you sit at a table outside in the sun you get charged an extra 20% PER PLATE. Unfortunately we didn’t realise this until we got our bill. Having sat in the shade, we could have done with the extra €10 in our pockets, especially since the bar was ultra cool and that’s where all the cute men seemed to be hanging out!

For the best bocadillos you’ve ever tasted – and I promise you this, I can still taste the chorizo on my tongue (give me a moment, mmmmmm) – go to Plaza Alfalfa. I don’t remember the name of the bar but you’ll see a crowd standing outside in the sun enjoying bocadillos and other tapas plates of prawns and other delicious looking salads. It’s across from a place called Bar Alfalfa, which also looks pretty cool but we didn’t venture in.

Third tip: don't try to catch Eurolines from Sevilla to Morocco. Despite information to the contrary on its website, the buses don't leave from Sevilla, almost every other city in Spain (including Granada) but not Sevilla. It took us a few days to figure this out. Just go to Algerciras and get the ferry and then the train. And then pray you meet friendly Spanish hotel owners who help you on your way. But that's another entry...

Downhill from Granada

While bohemian Granada had embraced us, loved us, asked us to be one with it, Sevilla turned up its nose at us and scoffed.

Our backpacking outfits that had served us so well in Granada did not blend in with this well-heeled city. Adorable kids dressed impeccably alike. Men in stripy shirts and shiny leather shoes, women with perfect hair, Manolo Blahnik-esque shoes. Everyone's dressed to impress.

This provided the perfect excuse to get our dresses out - and it was hot! Suddenly it was 'muy bonita' instead of scoffs.

Even our hostel was posh. A swimming pool on the roof terrace and all the mod cons in the kitchen. Apart from the eight-bed dorms this place was better than any three-star hotel I've stayed at in France or Italy. Oh, but the eight-bed dorms. Unfortunately they didn't have all-girl dorms in Sevilla. Gone was our little four-bed enclave with a window. Boys smell. And the snore. We decided we'd splash out in Morocco. For what we were paying in Spain we could get a private room with bathroom in a riad - or guesthouse - rather than a hostel. We were pretty excited.

We went on the tapas tour in Sevilla as well, but it was just not good. The first place was very Spanish (read: jamon hanging from the ceiling and not a chair in sight) but the second place was just a tourist haven. They even sold hamburgers! Where had they brought us? Apart from the vast numbers of very loud Americans the tapas tour guide disappeared once we got there. And then that was it. The next stop was a flamenco dance and it was all over. We had to get out of there!

Staying with royalty

Um, did I mention Prince Harry was staying at the Oasis?

New best friends come in handy

Our other, other new best friend is an Aussie girl, Alice. We love her! She had an Australia to Europe power adapter! And you know what that means? I got to use my hairdryer! When I came downstairs for the tapas tour last night people didn't recognise me! We love her for many more reasons than this, of course. She has her Mac with her too. I like that I'm not the only person staying in a hostel with fancy gadgets. She has also been to Morocco and has given us loads of tips and numbers and websites of places to stay. She's a wealth of information. Did you know, for example, that the Mac store on Regent Street runs free workshops? I'm so signing up.

I tell you what, St Christopher is definitely watching over us. Sometimes, being Catholic comes in handy. I knew my 13 years of Catholic schooling would show their worth one day.

Last night blues

It's our last night in Granada. Some of the other backpackers who came for a holiday and just never left here have been trying to convince us to stay. Bindi is seriously considering ditching Barcelona to come back to Granada to hang out for a few months. I don't blame her.

I'm sitting in the kitchen. Bindi is chopping vegetables uniformly with Davis (head chef) and Ivan (sous chef). (I think that makes her the dish pig?) I've got my iPod plugged in to the stereo. We're talking about Rushmore because the song that's on right now is from the movie. We've all been telling our favourite Seinfeld episodes. Life is good.

This morning, as we were sitting in the sun waiting for our time to enter the Alahmbra, Bindi shed a tear over how happy she is. It may have had something to do with the fact that she got about three hours' sleep last night, and could have possibly still been drunk at the time. Oh no. Or the fact that we had waited til our last day, when extremelty hungover, to see the one sight there is to see in Granada. No, I don't so. It's just that it's been a fun week. We can't tell you why, exactly. We met an older Canadian couple in the queue at the Alahmbra who recognised our accents and were telling us how their daughter lived in Melbourne. They were surprised we'd been here almost a week and asked what we'd done. When we enthusiastically answered we'd been on a great graffiti tour, they politely smiled and ended the conversation. Is that really the only thing we've done here?

You and I know otherwise.

Karaoke and kebabs

Yes, we did it! And it was bad. One down side of this hostel is that there are many very talented musicians staying here. Many of them sing. Well. So although it was definitely Bindi and I pushing the tapas tour towards the karaoke bar, it wasn't us getting the cheers from the crowd. Oh no, it was all the bloody good singers! At least I had the sense to surrender the microphone for the Dusty Springfield number I requested to Carolyn - a VERY good Canadian singer staying here. Everyone was coming up to her telling her how great she was afterwards. I tried to hide the dagger stares.

My only consolation is that I have found someone who is worse at karaoke than I am. Bindi! Man, she is bad. Very bad. Think Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend's Wedding. Yep, Bindi is worse. I promise you. Not only that, she is the loudest singer/talker ever! In her duet with Davis, a very talented muso, you could only hear her. At least in my duet with Ivan (we did Summer lovin') I didn't sing his parts. And I think I actually sing Olivia quite well. Honest. It's her high pitch that agrees with me.

Unfortunately for us, the Irish bar doesn't serve free tapas with your drinks. Bloody Irish! Anyway, it was a good excuse to stop off for a kebab on the way home! The Moorish influence on Granada is still incredibly strong, and there are more kebab houses than I've ever seen. I'm in heaven! I've gots so much material for my book, it's ridiculous. I've also got quite a few people here interested in it. I took quite a few photos of my new mates eating their kebabs. I bet you just can't wait to read it! II better go and make notes for it...Ciao.

Backpacking rules, OK!

I'll tell you what. I wished I'd cottoned on to this backpacking thing in my 20s. (Well, let me clarify - I did go backpacking with Bridget, Helen and Jess in my 20s, but we stayed in hotels. What fools!) This has got to be the most fun I've in years. Seriously. This hostel and its free tours are the best. Yesterday, the tour advertised on the 'Today's activities' board actually took place. (It was being taken by a Canadian.) It was the graffiti tour that we thought we were waiting for on Tuesday. It was free, and it was amazing. We walked all over the city and saw the most amazing 'street art'. There's this one guy called Sex, whose stuff is so cool. Check out his website: http://www.elninodelaspinturas.com/

The tour guide, Ivan, is one of our new best friends. After the graffiti tour he took us up the mountain to the caves. Hmm, I wasn't that impressed. I mean, it's pretty cool that these caves have been turned into houses, but we didn't see the gypsy caves where families have apparently lived for generations. We only saw some smelly people who looked like they'd fallen off the backpackers' trail. Let me tell you, never have I seen so many dredlocks in one city! Anyway, it was a great tour that lasted all day. Well worth the zero euros it cost us. You just wouldn't get a free graffiti tour in a hotel, would you?

A reason to drink

Guess what? We weren't the only ones on the tapas tour last night. Loads of people went. It was a veritable.....tour! Woo hoo!

And do you know the best thing about the tapas tour? The tapas is free! Yes, that's right. Free. It costs nothing. Nada. It's a Granadan tradition to serve free tapas every time you buy a drink (except for tap water, coffee and shots). Yes, it's true - apparently someone has tried the tap water trick to get free tapas. I didn't have the heart to ask whether it was an Australian.

So the moral of the story is that drinking funds our dinner! What more could you ask for? And at dos euros a pop for a vino, even the drinking isn't breaking the bank. Bindi and I spent catorce (14) euros last night, got suitably happy and didn't even need to stop off for a kebab on the way home!

We're thinking of extending our stay.

You don't need an idea!

All you need to do is to find a local who speaks the lingo, knows their way around and has some spare time!

We found ours last night on the tapas tour - Davis, our guide! He's our new best friend. Today he took us to the fruit market, where we bought some much needed nutrition and practiced the names of the fruit and saying 'Cuanto es?'. (We bought some fresas, mandarinas, uvas and we already had dos manzanas.) Then we went to the bread shop, then to the meat and cheese market where we bought some jamon serrano and manchego. He also very patiently negotiated a new deal on a Spanish sim card for me! So now I'm on the Spanish network. Life is good.

OK, so he's not a local in the true sense of the word. He's an American on a journey of self discovery. But he has been living here on and off for two years. So it kind of counts. Anyway, he's an excellent translator and a great cook. We're getting lots of recipes and Bindi is helping him chop the vegetables uniformly for the hostal dinner party tonight.

Unfortunately he seems to be refusing to be our Moroccan tour guide so next week may be a completely different story. We may be back to needing a few ideas in order to survive. Until then though....tonight is Thai dinner party night! Bring it on. For 3.50 euros.

OK, we have no idea

I'm starting to get the feeling Bindi and I aren't the world's best backpackers. We just don't think of the little things. Like checking we have the right adapters before we leave England. Or if our professional-backpacker-ultra-cool-micorfibre towels need to be washed before use. Or bringing a brush, or a bag for our wet bathers, to the hammam. (Not to mention warm clothes for 16 degree temperatures.)

Consequently, I have a great haridryer taking up a large portion of my 55-litre backpack that I can't use, quite a lot of microfibre fluff on my body which is accentuated when moisturising, a wet bag and crazy hair. Expect a lot of scenery shots of this holiday.

Bindi has already named this holiday the 'back and forth holiday', for the number of times we have to go back to our room each day to recover things we didn't think about taking the first time we left.

On the other hand, really sensible and organised people do start to irritate me after a while. I think Bindi and I should get along just fine.

I mean, who wants to think about that boring stuff when there are so many wonderful daydreams to be had?

Speaking the lingo

We had our first Spanish lesson last night. Our first lesson in many things Spanish. But let's talk about the language first. It was great. A great refresher for me. A tough start after a sangria for Bindi. She's decided no more alcohol before lessons after the tongue-twisting confusion of the language got the better of her. To solve the problem she decided today to just lisp everything.
"Grathiath"
"Doth more, por favor"
"Doth thervetha"!

It's great entertainment for both of us. What's not so entertaining is when we cleverly keep asking, "Cuantro es?" and then having no clue when the answer comes how much it is after all. We've overcome this problem by handing over way more than we know it could possibly cost. This seemed to be working well until I handed over €3 (a €1 and a €2 coin) for something that cost €2! Damn, plan came unstuck. Must learn to understand Spanish people saying numbers very fast. Fast!

The second Spanish lesson we learnt last night was that just because something is advertised and you've paid for it doesn't mean anyone has a clue as to what is happening. Having paid for our Spanish lessons and accommodation as a package, we rocked up to meet our teacher who had no idea who we were, what we'd paid for - or that we'd even paid at all - or when our lessons would be held.

Third lesson: just because something is advertised on the 'Today's acitvities' board doesn't mean it is actually an acitivity that anyone expects to happen. Except us. Being the joiners that we are, Bindi got down to the foyer to meet the tour group five minutes early to ask them to wait for me, who might be five minutes late. No tour group turned up. We joked that we must be the only ones going on the tour. It was funny until there was no tour guide either. After waiting a sufficiently European amount of time for others to show (40 minnutes) we enquired with the receptionist, who promptly went upstairs to wake up the tour guide. Unfortunately, we'd already done the sights the tour was to take us on. Fortuntely for the guide, he got to go back to bed. It was only midday, after all.

So tonight, we're at it again. We're intending to go on the tapas tour! Luckily we met the guide for this tour last night. We're pretty sure we'll be the only ones on the tour but he did say he'd be here. And I have a feeling he fancies Bindi so he should show. We're hoping the only stop isn't our favourite bar (El circulo), which we did indeed go back to last night, because I am getting a bit embarrassed about turning up every night in the same outfit - my one warm top. Juan well and truly knows us by now. We might have to start swapping tops soon...