The Unfinished Spanish Galleon

Where did we leave this story kids? Were we up to the part where I slayed the dragon and rode off into the sun with the now rescued Melissah over my shoulder? No.. Well that will give you something to look forward to. We arrived in Spain after the disaster that was a two night stop over in France. We have (in Allan and Melissah world) officially declared the area between Germany and Spain an ocean. It hasn't been named yet but expect it sound something like the Aglio or Knoblauch Ocean. Check the photos for this new world order. By the way Monaco is now an Island, we tripled its coast line. Once again I have wandered off topic, I can tell when this happens because Melissah tuts very loudly over my shoulder as she reads it.

So we arrived in Spain, well Barcelona to be accurate. Were we in a good mood? Not particularly. We were in any type of mood to deal with idiots? Not really. Is patience a virtue Melissah and I have been naturally blessed with? I think that's a no. We get off the metro near the hostel, at this point we had travelled 14 hours from Paris, overnight and thus breaking the rule of no more overnight trains! Surprisingly though I did happen to learn from my past mistakes and did stay off the turps, although this was made easy due to the fact the train didn't have a resturant car. All I wanted was a nice paella, a beer and a nap or if I couldn't have those a shower would have done. So we are walking through the streets near the hostel and a spanish guy walks up to us and says "'Scuse me, can you direct me to X station (I use X because I can't remember it's bloody name)". Now this was a little odd because you could see the station from where we were standing. Have you got how this looks, 2 very tired and dishevelled travellers with full packs and no patience and 1 denim clad idiot with so much grease in his hair that wrestlers were forming an orderly que behind him in order to lube up before their next match.

Then out of the alley way came two more idiots. Short fat idiot and quiet creepy idiot. So now its 2 tired, increasingly grumpy travellers and 3 idiots. The short fat one said he was some sort of police officer, flashed some id and asked to see some id from the two of us and the denim clad idiot. The greasy one took out his wallet and showed him an "id". I happened to be standing very close to the gentleman and he only showed a banckcard, no id. Anybody else smell something fishy? Then he asked for our passports, I suggested to Melissah it was time for us to leave. Melissah on the other hand had decided that she had had enough of people trying to rip us off and steal our shit. She demanded to see the guys ID again. When he showed it she laughed and told him it was fake. Then asked to see the other guy's (the creepy one who said nothing but just stood there the whole time) ID. they said you don't need to see it, Melissah insisted somewhat forcefully that she did need to see it. Short fat one realised that he wasn't going to win this one so they turned and all three of them walked away together talking to each other. Even though she had successfully prevented us getting more shit stolen Melissah had turned, well I like to call it "Volcano red". Not happy that someone had decided we were fair game 3 days after someone else decided we were fair game, unleashed a stream of unlady like words directed at karma, fate and whatever god happened to be listening. I felt happy I wasn't included in the group.

Luckily for Barcelona, this didn't tarnish the time we had there. We stayed in a tiny little hostel, which nightly turned into a very twisted soap opera using all the guests except Melissah and I. While in Barcelona, a dear old friend of Melissah and I (everything else I wrote as an introduction was censored so much that it lost it's funny) Chuck came to meet up with us. Rebecca (as she was christened or so she claims) had the pleasure of following us around for the first day while we decided to replace shit that was stolen, like the camera and ipod. Having Chuck around was like having a child around. No Chuck, you can't touch the policeman. Chuck, get away from those French boys clothes. Don't smell them, Melissah, she wont listen to me make her stop sniffing their underwear (ok so it was shirt but it was still disturbing). So for those of you that think Baiden put mine and Melissah's desire to be parents back a little bit. Chuck pushed them back even further! Once the camera and ipod were purchased the three or four days we were there whizzed along. There were highlights, going to the Nou Camp to watch Barcelona win 4-1, watching a pom throw up into the bin in our dorm, the discreet pleasure in knowing a girl wet her pants while drinking with the poms and all she did was change her pants (no shower) but she thought no one knew. Guess what? We knew!! That was hilarious, if nothing else had happened except for pee girl it would have been worth going for. For those that are asking, it wasn't Chuck. Melissah on the other hand, well you can never trust the quiet ones.

Barcelona... Spanish is harder than you think

When we put Chuck on the bus to the airport, we made our way to Bilbao. We stayed at a beautiful place on the hill overlooking the city, amazing views, fantastic room, brilliant shower. One of the best places we have stayed except for one small flaw. It's in the middle of no where, it's a good half an hour walk down the hill (if you can find the right path) and going up well its a nightmare. It's designed for those with a vehicle not those of us with a reliance on public transport. Aside from that small issue Bilbao is nice, if only for one reason. Melissah found her sunglasses, same shape, same model, same colour. Why is this a big thing? Well before we left Australia Melissah would have tried on at a low estimate 2000 pairs of glasses and found 1, only 1 pair that she even considered buying. Then they went missing. So what have we done since? Gone into every sunglasses shop looking for that one pair. There was to be no negotiation, that was the only pair that was an acceptable replacement "like for exact" if you will. It was becoming a loosing battle, 35 sunglasses shops not even a hint of the right pair and then lucky number 36, one pair on special, the exact pair. Hallelujah. So Bilbao is remembered for being pretty and saving me another three months of walking into sunglasses shops and hearing "hmpf, they don't have them. Lets go." Make sure you add the sad face with the puppy dog eyes as you read it and then you'll understand!

Bilbao ... should change its name to Guggenheim

From Bilbao to the UK. This should actually read from Bilbao to UK passport control (because it's basically a stop over on its own) and then to the UK.