Dear Sam, I have successfully infiltrated Catalonia (not Spain; the difference has been explained to me several times...at length...with no small degree of passion) and I don't think anyone suspects a thing: My journey begins just as my sister's wedding ends. Having donned the tweed waistcoat of the 'Dave of honour' in the ceremony and successfully obtained a brother-in-law, lovingly known as 'brolo', I turn my sights towards Europe. That is to say proper Europe, the one with all the fashion sense and accents and such. First stop is the train from York to London, via a bacon sandwich, and then the Eurostar to Paris, braided plastic chairs, red wine and cigarettes. Admittedly missing the Eurostar delays me somewhat but all is well once tickets are rearranged and cousins are told to stop badmouthing the staff, who are explaining very pointedly that they are only trying to help. Paris is, as expected, well up to the task of delivering a small café with chairs on the pavement, in prime position to watch the fashion show that is Parisians on the move, while enjoying a glass of wine. Woken by my alarm, I unfurl myself from the sofa bed and fall into and back out of the shower and put my body roughly in the vicinity of some clothing - taxi drivers are not so kindly disposed to nude fares after all. At the airport, and fully clothed, I discover the I'm overweight, or at least my luggage is. 3kg to the tune of €35. Fortunately a combination of smiling sweetly and looking confused seem to be the housewife's remedy to extra charges and I get away Scott free. Emphasis on the free. My first impressions of Barcelona are that it is an airport. As that is all I see of it before boarding my train I order to arrive at work a few hours later. As luck would have it I meet a Senegalese chap (people should say chap more) who needs help figuring out how to get to the north station in Barcelona. I have no idea and ask a family who seem local and the aforementioned chap and I are immediately taken under the wing. I say bye bye to Bay Baye Sene as he is shooed off in the direction of his train by the mother hen and then make my way with the brood to the train for Sabadell amidst ernest warnings of 'Cuidado! Cuidado!' and vehement gesturing to my pockets. The thieves like train stations apparently. I meet none, a several and arrive in Sabadell just in time to get completely lost in a maze of small streets...
(N.B. Not having had access to WiFi for the last fortnight, this is not
exactly breaking news...I'm writing from the climbing wall as it is...
more to come...eventually...)
