colours and craze…welcome to carnival cadiz

The closer the train to the city of Cadiz, the more costumed folk jump aboard. We think about the possible costume ingredients we will be able to find in our limited backpacker selection. Getting off at the Cadiz station and suddenly we are in a different world… it is carnival time! People everywhere in the train station, on the street, in the street, are changing into wacky costumes. There are clans of sailors and bunches of sunflower men, fairies and elves, Vikings and giant babies, and plastic bags filled with bottles of wine ready for the festivities. With some scarves, plastic jewellery, a clown nose, orange sunglasses, black and green eyeliner and some strategically placed hairstyles we transform ourselves into a clown of sorts, a hippy of sorts, a pirate of sorts and a cat (of sorts of course). Whisky whisky whisky, music music, chips and chatting and my new friends could very well be the most fun I have met on this excursion. From Holland and Estonia, the travelling duo has been living life as a ball in a pinball machine. Launching off and just being thrown at random around Spain, never knowing where they will end next. Will it be a squat in Barcelona, a villa on the east coast complete with a car to drive, a backpackers or someone's couch? Fun; these kids are fun. And for this weekend I play pinball.

So we launch and land in a square of costumes. I follow my ears in the direction of the music. A stage is filled with men in skin coloured costumes with strange apparatus hanging at all directions. No idea what they are meant to be but I stand amidst the crowd and hide under some umbrellas and watch and cheer along. Like the balls we bounce from one group of people to the next, chatting and drinking with them and a huge concert suddenly appears in what must be the centre square. It is a blur of colour and activity which could be due to the persistent (soon to be torrential) rain or from a few too many drinks…

For me the carnival ends sometime in the morning, when it is still the thick of night and the wind and rain make it impossible to walk more than five metres before hiding behind a pillar of some kind. I cling to the hope that sun will come out. I dabble in some couch surfing and when the sun finally rises and I walk along the main street I see that Cadiz has a great beach running parallel to the town.

My whiskers have long since washed away but I took a bunch of photos and danced some amazing salsa (it is true, Amazing salsa, we even had an audience circle). Carnaval Cadiz … was kaleidoscope crazy.

it is the moments, really

It is the moments. No; it is the unexpected moments. The conversations with people from all over the world. Talk of all-night parties in Croatia, of being a street performer in Malaga, of squats in Barcelona where they listen to 80s music and have house meetings. It is the café you accidently enter that happens to be the best café you have ever been too. Unusual landscape photography on the walls, books on a spiral staircase that leads to nowhere, the quirky seats and a swing for a chair. Food that tastes like it comes from my friend's kitchen and every drink served in a different mug - Café con Libros, big shout out to you. It is the travelers you meet that soon you will be joining. You suggest Cadiz, the carnaval, the carnaval! "yeah, sounds good, I have a friend there we can maybe leave our bags there and fiesta all night long".

Days drift by in Malaga in a bit of a haze. I treat myself to breakfast each morning and long languid dinners in the evening with a book and vino tinto in a charming red-walled tapas bar. The last night Flamenco steals my heart. Her singing rips your heart out and you are not watching, but feeling. The stomping, the clapping, the swirling and compelling dance – it is the fiery passion of flamenco.

Then the three of us are on the train to Cadiz. We make the train by about three minutes. It is true, if you don't worry about things then everything seems to fall into place, and if it doesn't we're not too worried so it doesn't matter any way.

Flow. Cruise. Groove. Be.

Bohemia

"This is what you wanted no?"

I had been sitting in the lounge room watching the conversation as if it was a game of tennis. Only in this game I had no idea of the rules and the racquets, court, net and ball were completely different.

But yes, it is exactly what I wanted. It was only a moment ago that I told Igor I was trying to learn and although I had no idea what everyone was saying I sometimes just made up the conversation using the few words that sounded familiar. It is how he learnt the language and since I am too stingy to pay for as many language courses as I had planned, it may well be the way I learn also.

Tonight it was a party in the lounge room of Casa Babylon. Bohemian life. Casa Babylon is Bohemia. People coming and going, a table full of food, travelers, gypsy, street performers. Art abounds as does the music and then musical instruments are pulled out of a magic music bag.

Songs with words I don't understand but it feels familiar and maybe, in fact, I do.

where myth and history merge

The tea bar is tiny, but beautiful. I have stepped off the narrow street, and I have left Spain. Arabian nights. Deep reds, plum purples, ornate detailing in each piece of fabric, every archway. Perched on embroidered cushions atop little cube stools and two hookahs are brought to the table. We order mixed fruit and strawberry flavoured shisha. Water bubbles against the glass and sweet smoke leaves us dreamy with Arabian music swirling in our heads.

We relish for a moment or two in our chilled state and then the others come bounding in clearly pumped. Whisked of the stools and back into the streets. Running through a labyrinth of paths with pockets full of cheap booze. Up the stairs. Stop. Turn. And see what gave the others their buzz. La Alhambra. The enchanted castle with its mystique and magic lit up against an overcast Spanish sky. Myth says this 12^th century Moorish castle appeared mysteriously one day and one day, it will vanish.

it snows in Granada but for less than two euros you get sangria and too much tapas

The bus arrives in the dark and there are no maps of Granada at the station. I refuse to catch a taxi and after trying in vain to understand the city bus route jump on the number 33 and hope for the best! I tap people on the shoulder, "Perdon, Donde esta Gran Via?" "Si, Si, es Gran Via" they reply. Clearly this doesn't really help me and I realize the whole road is Gran Via. Soon the whole bus is watching as I point to random names on my dodgy directions. No one seems to have any idea where I'm going and neither do I. But the old Spanish man in the corner smiles at me and I'm feeling okay. It may take a little a bit of wandering in the rain but I know that eventually I'll find my way. It's inevitable really. Some young girls help me out and point me in the right direction that is actually completely wrong. And then I am talking with some English speaking locals who walk me to Plaza de la Trinidad and I am on my way.

She told me that no one here speaks English. It is also pouring with rain. But the streets have a good feel to them and the next morning the chocolate con churros are absolutely amazing. Really… who eats five churros, each the size of a regular donut only straight, with a mug of thicker than thick hot chocolate? After ordering them in Spanish - I do. I eat five churros, dipping them in my mug of rich chocolate before each tasty bite, just like everyone else in the café.

And now I'll buy an umbrella.

trance music on the bus radio

I drive past cherry blossoms. Cacti stands tall, the same as those that lead the way to Elliston. Aleppo pines, the same as those that are a pest on Eyre Peninsula. Deserted stone houses. Chillout trance on the alsa bus radio. Sunshine lands on my cheek. The hills turn green and the sky blue and the bus driver tells the passengers something important in Spanish. White houses with tiled orange rooftops nestled in the hills. Snow. I see the snow. like a child I can't stop smiling and don't know how to walk properly (in the snow).

pause

Now it's packing and unpacking, moving and losing more belongings. Meeting more people and saying more goodbyes.

The train trip from Valenica to Alicante is beautiful. Thousands of orange trees start the journey. Tiny villages that simply ooze Spain. Then there's Alicante with its beautiful beach and alluring ancient castle on the hill. We climb to the top and stand at an old watchtower overlooking the Mediterranean sea. The castle stood the test of time until the mid 1800s. Not that long ago really.

It's icy cold at night and after the bike ride in Valencia - where in my oversized sunglasses, thin wool jumper and apricot shawl I was stylishly underprepared for the rain – I am now coughing and spluttering and rugged up in bed for the best part of my stay in Alicante.

I make it to the beach and in two pairs of stockings, boots, a jumper, jacket and beanie I roll a towel out on the beach and catch a moment of Spanish sun.

Dosed up on pseudoephedrine and I'm on my way to Granada.

Maybe we needed a little sun

Valencia. Valencia?

The obvious answer is oranges. Like the orange groves filled with juicy, bright fruit that stretched for miles as we caught the train toward Alicante. But for me, Valencia was paella, Spanish language school, irregular verbs that were oh so confusing, new friends from Sweden, bike riding in the rain, the America's Cup, my best friend Claire and the all important home cooked meals a la chefs Claire and Raff.

After muchas las fiestas en Barcelona I was ready for a rest. Ready to chill out and learn some Espanol. Saving money was also a vague thought so I lived on Special K, yogurt, bananas and orange juice for not quite a week. This saving was all undone when it suddenly dawned on me that winter in Spain did not mean summer because, hello 'it's Spain'! No, no, no, one four degree day and I was straight in the department store to buy a winter jacket. The Barcelona-bought jacket had only lasted a few days before it decided to make a new home in a nightclub by the beach. Lucky this second one had the all important green stripes and big pockets (for the warming of my little hands).

The Swedes and I walk to the park and Matilda learns that she has the ability to speak bird. In class I almost cry when I can't manage to string a simple sentence together. Art museums inspire and delight. Contemporary museums with photography and a forward-thinking local street magazine … then underneath and I have found a new interest - modernist illustration (in magazines) circa 1920s. It is after this I find myself taking photos of street graffiti, paintings on the backs of chairs, detailed ceilings and more mosaic floors.

I finish my one week Spanish course and am embarrassed to be presented with a certificate when I was one of the worst in the class.

Sangria sangria, why have we not shared a Spain moment yet? I find my way to Claire and Tristan. How uncanny that my best friend from Australia so happens to be in Europe - in Spain - in Valencia, the very same time as me! I have only been one week away from home so the catch up, while not without its sentiment, feels not too out of the ordinary. But for my friend Claire it is six months. Not a moment too soon we are saying Salud and drinking a bottle of vino tinto. Then off to find a funky bar and alas, sangria my dear, there you are.

The trio that is Claire, Tristan and I hire bikes and cruise through the narrow streets and then down to the empty beach where I think my fingers my fall off from the cold. A café by the sea offers menu del dia of paella, fried seafood and cerveza.

There is nothing bad to say about you Valencia… you gave me sweet sangria and Swedish friends, funky earrings and live music, bike riding, colourful streets and interesting graffiti. Yet the bond is not quite there. Maybe if the sun was out my heart would have warmed to you more. Till next time hey, till summer…

Pablo sings the blues

Pablo wants to be a black man. Pablo wants to sing the blues.

He plays old blues classics on youTube and strums along at the hostel. Sebastian with a smattering of silver eyelashes against the black sings with a voice so delicate. Pablo’s passion for blues comes alive as we listen to his story of its beginnings.

“It is the mother, and the father, of everything.”

Blues, they say, was born out of repression and creative restriction of the African Americans and Chinese slaves. Their language forbidden and the drums no longer played. In the battlefields of civil war lay forgotten guitars…that soon had soul sung back into them.

“but the story, it is nothing if you don’t play the scales…”

And we listen as the story comes to life from the diatonic chords and then the extra chords and “then the devil that came into the strings”

Andy challenges the story, says he will find a different theory, but really its like Pablo said and this story is not a story at all without a guitar in hand and bluesy beats along the way.

The room fills. The guys from South American living in Barcelona are going to start a band. Shake the eggs and I think of Jes; guitars and bongo drums and a glass of red wine.

And we sing… “champagne don’t drive me crazy, cocaine don’t make me lazy, ain’t nobody’s business but my own/ Candy is dandy and liquor is quicker, You can drink all the liquor down in Costa Rica, Ain’t nobody’s business but my own…”
Taj Mahal sang that song.
And tonight I sang a little blues myself.

my wing landed in Gracia

So my wing fell off in Barcelona. It landed somewhere around Gracia. I think this means I should move there. My wing has also fallen off in my hands and at Café Del Giornos so if I’m going with this theory it could also mean that my life is in my hands or I eat at Del Giornos too often. But I’m sticking with the former: Barcelona. I didn’t expect to fall in love with Barcelona so quickly. In fact I didn’t even plan on starting in Barcelona (and I also didn’t plan to party in Barcelona…Honestly!).

The 12 hour flight from Singapore to Barcelona was stranded in Milan for a few hours as they melted ice of the engines and wings. It was at that moment I realized I should have packed a jacket. Also that when everyone was saying it was going to be cold I could have used this as advice instead of being a stubborn little shit, oh well. Aside from that, the interlude in Milan did give me time to make friends with the guy sitting behind me. Nacho was returning to Barcelona from a month in New Zealand with his girlfriend. International romance…airlines will make a fortune. Anyhow instead of wasting 30 euro on a taxi Nacho directed me onto the train and next thing I know I’m walking out of the metro station, looking up and staring at my favourite Gaudi creation in the city – Casa Batllo. A few doors down and I land in my hostel with not a wink of jet lag in sight.

The sight-seeing begins. A bike tour throughout the city. I feel like a local if only it weren’t for the bright orange flag of my guide in front of me. My disguise has been blown, clearly a tourist. Siesta time at the hostel stretches out until about 9. Slowly people emerge and the vino starts to flow. I didn’t plan to go out but an hour later I am in a small group walking through narrow streets in el raval and going into a tiny club where the beats are pumping. It fits maybe 30 people on the dance floor – packed. The drinks are expensive but the tunes are worth it and besides, I’m so excited to be dancing in Barcelona I hardly need a drink! I practiced my Spanish at the bar and told them their drinks were too expensive. A free shot of tequila and my Spanish is paying off.
I pull out Sigi’s golfing dance move and become the favourite of a few local punters who mimic the move and pass me some cerveza.

The next few days pass meandering through the cobbled streets, becoming lost in alleyways with washing hanging overhead, daydreaming in art museums, discovering astonishing architecture and cute tapas bars, siestas, Gaudi and Picasso, and making friends with the kids from South America who work at the hostel.
Partying starts at midnight and we don’t leave for the bars until 2. I get lost in Barcelona at six in the morning with no jacket and no amigos! I forget the rule about not talking to strangers, particularly when you are alone in a foreign city…but my new friend walks me to my street and asks only that I go out dancing the next night!
I do go dancing the next night but forgot about the helpful stranger. Actually, I think I forgot a little too much, such as my bus leaving at 10am for Valencia the next morning. Running through the metro, fumbling for my ticket, buying the wrong ticket, and then buying the wrong ticket again! ARGH! Dragging my suitcase behind me, “?Arc de Triompf?” “?Arc de Triompf?” I miss the bus by one minute so slept on the hostel couch for an hour and arrive in Valencia disoriented and lost, again! But the help of strangers is uncanny and I move into my new room ready for a week of serious studying and a rest from partying…

I miss Barcelona already. After all, my wing is still there.