Not From Valencia

Kris — Fri, 30 Mar 2001 17:27:16 +0100

Not that any but a few knew, because of the difficulties I've had uploading the blog, but this entry was supposed to come to you from Valencia. As it is, I'm in Barcelona, overlooking La Ramblas, and thoroughly contented. Let me bring you up to speed...
"In an ideal world," sang The Christians in the eighties, "You're free to choose." In Europe, sadly, this is only true if you forewarn and foreplan everything. And so it was that I found myself about to board the train to Valencia on Wednesday morning, when I was told that despite having a valid Inter-Rail pass, I still needed a booking ticket. With twenty minutes 'til the train departed, and a forty-minute queue to book, I decided to go the middle ground and spend thirty minutes swearing profusely in the middle of nowhere.
System reasonably well vented, and no hope of getting to Valencia at any time that would allow me to find accomadation, I opted to switch my plans to spending one last day in Madrid, and then catching the red-eye to Barcelona, arriving in time for breakfast.
I won't fill you in on the rest of the Madrid stay, except to note that I think the Spanish are now winning in the European weirdness stakes, with their exceptionally cooky entry of a miniature golf course on the roof of the train station. While the designer was evidently short on space, my hat's off to him, as he still managed to cram in a river, lake and bridge theme and more curves, wobbles and bumps than the Birmingham traffic system.
In addition to strange architectural choices, Spain also boasts the widest possible range of travel classes. The choices available to me went from the high priced Supreme class (8000pts), down through Tourist class, First class, Second class, Battery-Farm class, Reclining-Chair class and Plastic-Stool class and finally down to Scum class (700pts). Being a traveller on a budget, I decided to go one cheaper and take Dante's Descent class, for only 500pts. It's exactly the same as Scum class, but they make you walk down through all the levels you're missing, from the best down to the worst, and through the dining car and the bar. A strange torture by an otherwise friendly people.
Still, better than Dante's Inferno class, where they make you shovel coal into the boiler...
Bleary eyed and nationally-disoriented, the last thing I needed when I arrived at the station was a short, horrendously dressed woman who must have been the Queen of the Trolls, leaping at me, shouting something indecipherable and showing me photos of her bed!
Hurriedly shouting 'No' in every language (verbal and body) I could muster, I dived off for the nearest strong coffee. Whilst I calmed down and perked up with my friend Mr Java, I figured that she was probably advertising for the local hotels. Frankly I think that as a sales policy you should using the Queen of the Trolls to sell black magick hexes or copies of, 'The Lord of the Rings'. Hotels should be advertised with large, friendly mother-figures holding mugs of tea...
As it is, I'm staying in arguably the best place I've stopped so far. It's called the 'Hostel Parisien' and it's as close to perfect as you can get. I have a balcony overlooking La Ramblas, Barcelona's most celebrated street, and overhearing a charming-but-cheesy accordion player. The rent's cheap, there's no breakfast to make you feel obliged to get up, and the lack of curfew almost makes you feel obliged to stay in the bars for 'Just one more G&T'. Happy am I here, and as a result I'm making no plans as yet to move on, save to say that my aim to make it to Paris for my Birthday stands.
And as my world gets wider, circumstances are imploring me to make myself present in the United States. Not for my own sake you understand, but in order to help their flagging fashion industry. Believe it or not, I've actually lost count of the times I've now heard various American tourists say something like, "Are you coming to the bar?" - "In a minute, I've just gotta gedda shirt first."
Why are all these Americans coming to Europe to buy shirts? Either there's some custom I'm unfamiliar with about wearing new shirts every evening, or as I suspect, they are having a national Tailoring Crisis that the Bush administration is keeping quiet from the rest of the world.
I propose to gather together some of our nation's finest sartorial artisans, and take them on a skill-swap tour of the USA. It's all arranged, with one minor point to clear up - they can only offer us in return Radio DJ's or Baptist Preachers. Does anyone have a preference?
Not that we should laugh at the Americans - we're just as quirky. I was reading in The Times this morning that a man caught secretly videoing Madonna's daughter's christening was charged with "Conducting himself in a disorderly manner likely to cause concern and annoyance." A thoroughly respectable and down-right British charge to put a man on. God forbid our criminals are now 'causing concern'. What will come next, "Man Charged With Interrupting Afternoon Tea - Full Story Inside"?
One other tidbit from the hallowed halls of The Times, and I quote, "The Right Reverend Richard Harries, Bishop of Oxford, said, 'I am a May 3 man.'"
Isn't that the publishing date of the 'Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition'?
For now, I leave you with the off-the-point thought that when you have to give excuses, make them bad ones. A bad excuse is so embarrassing as to force you to learn from your mistake, whereas a good excuse is practically a license to repeat it...
T.T.F.N.,
Love Kris.

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Not From Valencia