Day 14 – 16 – Astounding Avignon (France) and Barcelona …

or how the Spanish really know how to party, and we ended the night dancing on tables…

So we left beautiful Switzerland and headed back into France and to Avignon. This quaint French town was extremely picturesque, with one feeling like they had been transported back in time, with its cobbled roads and ancient buildings. We wandered around this beautiful town taking in all the history we could, and decided on having a proper French dinner. We settled on a small restaurant, and immediately everyone in our small group looked to me to attempt to speak to the waiter in my rusty French. Luckily for me and my reputation in the group, everyone (but the poor waiter serving us) couldn’t tell how bad my French really was, and all looked in wide eyed amazement (especially the ladies in our group). I was able to bluff my way well enough to ensure everyone got what they wanted as we sat back to an amazing meal and perfectly matching French wines. To finish it all off we had amazing French profiteroles filled with vanilla bean ice cream. These tantalising treats just exploded with flavours in your mouth and set off a thousand taste sensations when one chomped one down.

As the sun set into the French horizon we were treated to a sight I’ve never seen before, as hundreds of ghostly mayflies drifted into sight. It was a real sight to behold as they danced and pirouetted before our very eyes. For those who don’t know mayflies are almost like a cross between dragonflies and butterflies, but with a sad story behind them. For those of you who have never seen the Vodafone mayfly advertisement before, you can have a look here (Vodafone Mayfly Advertisement). The humble adult mayfly emerges with a vestigial mouthpart, and its digestive system is filled with air. So these short lived creatures, as the advertisement alludes to, makes every moment count. For the more curious among us here is some more info (Mayfly wiki information).

As soon as I saw them, I couldn’t but help hear the music from the advertisement play in the background (which is Love song by the artist Kos) and brought a sad smile to my face. It really is a pity that humans don’t follow the same approach and make the most of their lives, using our lives to do good. After a discussion on life in general one time, my mother passed on some words of wisdom to me, which have always stuck with me since she said them. I try to follow as much as possible and it goes a little something like this –

I expect to pass through this world but once;
any good thing therefore that I can do, or any
kindness that I can show to any fellow-creature,
let me do it now; let me not defer or neglect it,
for I shall not pass this way again.

The consequences of our actions ripple out like waves in a pond don’t they? Ever since then I try to say or do at least one nice or good thing a day. Be it giving up my seat on the bus for a lady, or paying someone a compliment. It’s the small things in the world that add up eventually and make a difference I believe.

The next day we stopped off on the way at one of the last standing Roman aqueducts that are over 2000 years old, and then headed off to gorgeous and potentially dangerous Barcelona. Gorgeous because of all the jaw dropping Gaudi Architecture. Dangerous, due to the threat of light fingered pickpocketers. We were made to repeatedly promise (like a protective mom would) not travel alone at night. Heck, I lost count of how many times we were reminded to be careful actually.

When we finally arrived at our destination, we were as jumpy and paranoid as mice on speed, ready to pounce on anyone who looked at us funny let alone brushed up against us. Now, the hostel was extremely well laid out with all modern amenities one could want. The most important being a bar on the terrace that served sangria. Sangria is a highly refreshing wine and fruit mix that was perfect for the scorcher of a day we arrived to in Spain.
As the bone bleaching Spain sun began to sink behind the skyline, we made our way to a traditional Spanish dinner, with the main course being paella with a lot more sangria! Unfortunately, for me I can’t stand paella, and fought hard through the waves of nausea to breathe through my mouth (I’ve already told you about not being able to recognise my food in the Paris blog). A bit tipsy after knocking back my sangria, and mostly from not having a proper meal, we headed to the nights entertainment to watch a flamenco show. The staccato of passionate Spanish heels cut through the night in time to a live band and was as spectacular as id imagined it to be. Surprisingly, caracas weren’t used as id always expected. Maybe they don’t do that anymore, or it’s a used only for certain Spanish dances?

After the brief but action packed show we made our way over to a local bar in La Ramblas (The party area in downtown), however the mood really wasn’t right, mostly due to the wrong sort of music being played. So a group of women wanted to head back to the hostel. With me also not feeling the vibe, I decided I would shepherd these helpless women to the safety of the hostel. So a splinter group of us headed off to brave the dark Barcelona streets. As we trudged up the hill to the hostel, one of the girls in our group began to lag behind. Me being one to never to leave a man/woman behind circled back around and investigated what the fuss was all about.

It seemed Natasha like most typical women had sacrificed the looks of her shoes over comfortability. Nothing with women and their fashion choices surprised me anymore. Now she was paying dearly for it, as I pictured shady characters in the shadows creeping in closer for an easy kill. As I shook my head, I knew I was going to have to take drastic measures if the entire group of women were going to survive the night.

Ever the gentleman, and swallowing my pride, two words sprung from my mouth – “Piggy-back?” Natasha protested quite loudly, but I sure as hell wasn’t leaving someone behind to picked off like a sick gazelle. So yet once more, and more commandingly I demanded that she jump on my back so we could promptly rejoin the safety of the pack. This fortunately worked (for both of us), because I wasn’t looking forward to the possibility of giving her a swift karate chop and carting her limp body up the hill. After all, it would have been quite unbecoming really, and I wouldn’t have cut a very dashing figure with a Natasha hanging off me like a limp rag doll I mused.

So there I was, with a giggling almost hysterical girl on my back, wondering how I got myself into these sorts of situations, as I double timed it up the hardest part of the trek. Locals everywhere stood stunned, wide eyed and mouths agape; not knowing, whether to take photos of the spectacle, laugh or call the local constabulary. Our sudden and unexpected manoeuvre, took even the bravest of pick pocketers by surprise. For, as they beheld this strange behaviour, even they didn’t know whether they were coming or going let alone attempt to pick pocket us.

Now I’m sure mothers everywhere immediately locked up their daughters in haste just in case the cheeky darkie were to come back for their daughters. Spanish parents would forever tell bedtime tales of a mysterious cheeky darkie who would steal away daughters into the night if they ever caught being naughty.

And that’s the story of how I saved our merry group of women from pick pocketers. However, that’s not where the night ended. One of our group Mary, wowed by my cat like reflexes, and ability to save women in distress thought it would be apt to find a better place to go clubbing. She’d heard that the clubs at the Olympic park near the beach were the place to go. Why not I said? So off we shot off into the night to paint the town red.

We ended up at what looked like the most happening place at the beach – Shoko. Though immediately I felt quite underdressed, as I bowled on up in shorts and jandals, and everyone else lined up at the bar had Gucci suits and enough bling to dazzle a blind man. Utilizing my usual charm (well mostly Marys, as my charm doesn’t seem to work on men that well), Mary and I made our way past the menacing bouncer to behold a party that was really going off. Before you knew it we were on the dance floor and, in an ever shorter time we were on the tables showing the Spaniards how people really party.

This had nothing to do with the extremely strong drinks the Spanish pour mind you – as opposed to NZ and Australia where they measure out the drinks with surgical precision, in Spain bartenders tend to follow a bucket approach. Well after what seemed like 10 minutes, I looked at my watch to see that it was almost 4 in the morning! We’d come, we’d saw, and we’d conquered, so we concurred that we should make a dignified exit before the locals were completely embarrassed by our amazing ninja like dancing skills.

Now Barcelona was home to Ragnar and Lolita, the longest standing family friends I can remember. My first memory of eating olives, pineapple and walnuts were when Ragnar gave us little scrambling monkeys those treats when we were just little tykes. Memories of being accosted by rambunctious Lolita the moment we would walk into their place, being hugged to pieces and having my cheeks pinched like there was no tomorrow all rushed back as soon as I was to see them.

After a small lie in, or morning siesta as I like to call it, I caught up with Ragnar and Lolita at midday to be taken back to the Olympic park (where only a handful of hours ago Mary and I had burned up the dance floor). It was another scorcher of a day and we made our way over to a traditional restaurant and the feast of my life and Lolita ordered meal after meal of Spanish speciality dish. We chatted about the good old days and how each family was doing. After a meal fit for a king I hugged them both good bye and waddled back to my hostel to catch up with Ryan and see how his day had gone.

Now Ryan had spent most of his day at the beach, making the most of ozone filtered sunlight, but had unfortunately not taken the necessary precautions – like sunblock. Sure the sun doesn’t burn after 15 minutes like it does in New Zealand, but even in Spain it will after 15 hours. My first response when I first saw Ryan was – “Good God man! What happened to your face!” only to be met with Ryan signature resigned head shake. Oh well, I suppose a little bit of pain now, and when he got back to New Zealand all the women would be all over him and his Spanish tan like monkeys after a runaway banana cart.

As the sun set, we headed off to the Hard rock café for a normal western style meal as all the foreign food was beginning to pale in comparison to a simple good steak and fries. Lets say we ate pretty well as the photos show, with Janelle getting quite a surprise when her chocolate brownie turned up. The next day we were to pack up and see what all the fuss was with the French Riviera

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