Hive on Tour: No Pablo Espaniol!!

Quick note – Yes I realise this is now over two months late, and I’m not even halfway through the holiday yet... but fuck it.. How am I meant to do anything other than drink or work in august? Go fuck yourselves (na don’t, but cut me some slack eh!) I am going to try and pull up my breeches and get some serious blogging done throughout the month of September

Day 6 – Wednesday – Again, up very early for the bus. The rules at this ‘hostel’ meant that we were unable to shower since it was before 10am. If we had showered the fucking circuit would have exploded (delicate is a word I have heard used to describe foreign circuits). The bus ride was fairly smooth, although I was sick of ham and cheese sandwiches. We reached Granada around 9am. Granada being the place that I had heard nothing of, yet anyone who I asked about Andalucía always mentioned Granada very high on the list. Before we even got off the bus, the view of the mountains was breathtaking. How can there be snow when it’s over 40 degrees? I was quite keen to climb one (I reckon they would have towered above a number of Munroe’s...- maybe I should confirm that, but I just can’t be fucked! - ), in the end I didn’t climb one, I was just too fucked. But sorry I digress (and predict a riot (fuck)). So we got off the bus. The bus station was miles out of town (who does that?) We were all fucking starving, and parched as well, it was 9am and 40 fucking degrees! (Note that I’m not complaining) so we went in search of a coca light and a bocadillo. Directly across the road was a cafe which we promptly sat down at.
Now I can’t explain how this happened... at the time we all had our heads down feeling really sorry for him and just wanting him to leave, it was shit. I would now be prepared to say it was one of the best things that happened on our trip.

Everyone has been eating a meal, or sitting on a train or whatever, when someone with a clarinet or violin or some kind of ‘talent’(although whoever would call playing a musical instrument a ‘talent’ is clearly an idiot, it’s a piece of piss to play one) plays a song, and will walk up to each table asking for money. That morning in Granada, an ancient man with a massive lump on his forehead - which made him look like a vampire from Buffy – played us possibly the most discordant, dissonant and incongruous(like how I used my thesaurus there?) piece of music known to man(infact, it wasn’t quite as bad as DMH..burn!). I don’t know how he played it... It was like he spent 7 minutes (yeah it lasted 7 minutes) picking 4 notes at complete random and playing them all at once for 4 bars, then changing the notes. – That description does not do it justice. Please ask me in person for a demonstration. Now that was pretty bad yeah, but the thing about it was, at the end of every 4 bar “phrase” he would(now I don’t want to turn this into a technical music thing with terminology that no one understands, if you don’t understand – please ask me!) at the end of every 4 bar phrase, over beats 3 and 4 he would play a little run using the notes C-B-A-B-A with the rhythm ‘3 e and a 4(staccato on the 4). Whenever he came out of that little phrase, and got settled into the next section, he would look up and grin maniacally. I spent the whole 7 minutes trying not to piss myself. My biggest regret of the holiday was not giving him as much money as possible, taking him into a studio and recording an album.

As I said, I can’t describe how funny that actually was. Fucking brilliant. We got a sandwich and two cokes whatever, We almost passed out from the heat before we decided to get a taxi into town. That guy was just so fucking funny. We spent ages looking for the hostel we had decided to stay at(it was rated as sociable on the hostelbookers website). After we had been lost for ages, I decided it would be a good idea to follow two young Chinese girls because they were probably going to a hostel too(and they were hot and I was kindof bored). Aidan still had a reluctance to ask directions, so I tried asking a barman.. I, pronounced the street name completely wrong, and couldn’t understand his answer.. good one. Somehow, we eventually found the place. It turned out our difficulties weren’t unfounded. Mactub was the name of the place, but it was not spelt ‘MACTUB’, it was actually just a random Arab symbol. So we went in without reservations, Aidan had a conversation with the man in Spanish for a couple of minutes in which he sorted out our rooms. He then told us about the cost/deposit etc... The boy then turns to us and says ‘I’m from Brighton mate, always good to practise the Spanish though’. We booked the hostel for the night, and said we would let him know later if we wanted it another night. We got ourselves settled in good and proper, had showers...Craig and Aidan did some Laundry!!

Now the thing to see in Granada, is the Alhambra Palace – Apparently one of the 7 wonders of the world (although on checking Wikipedia that is not true, and the page has been protected so I can’t change it). – So, considering we weren’t sure how long we were staying in Granada, the best thing to do seemed to check out the Palace. We spent three hours looking for it. Instead of asking for even the vaguest directions... we picked a direction that we thought it was likely to be in, and started walking. We found what was evidently a school tour, and they were probably going to the Palace, so we followed them. We came to a viewing platform, and we even said to each other ‘wow look at those buildings, they look great’. I got a photo of them on my phone. It didn’t really click that those buildings were the palace. I was still fucked from the heat, and couldn’t really be fucked speaking to anyone... We were still pretty sick of each other and I needed some time alone. Instead of saying to them I was gonna go for a wander on my own, I just kindof trudged along about 20 metres behind them. I didn’t stress, they were getting stressed about being lost etc, I was fed up of being stressed. We were in a beautiful part of the world, and I was content to absorb it, without seeing sights etc. At some point I did mention that I thought we were actually looking at the Alhambra, but I wasn’t that bothered. We wandered along a dusty road for over an hour, we thought it might lead us around the mountains and to the palace (clutching at fucking straws haha??). How long were we planning on walking for??
We eventually reached a small ‘town’(it looked like the stone huts on Tatooine!) There was a man stopped on a scooter, we asked him ‘Alhambra?’ He looked at us like we were a bunch of idiots. He pointed back the way we had came. It was about 40 degrees, and we were all very thirsty. We stopped at the local shop for some juice. Again, another of Spains redeeming features is the fact that it has places like this – The shop was called ‘Chicken and Bread’ (In Spanish). There was no door to the shop. There was a window. With Bars. The shopkeeper was an 80 year man, and he stood behind the window. He took your order, then went through the back to get what you were after, took your money, and providing that the dimensions of your product were less than 2ftx0.5ft, he handed the product to you through the bars. What the fuck?? Why does a grocery have to have jailbars?? Of course if you want to buy a fudge cake or massive tub of ice cream then you’re fucked.

So we got a couple drinks from the weird man in the shop, and headed back along the road. When we got back to Granada we found a path that seemed to lead round the side of a mountain(and you wonder why we get lost all the fucking time?) so we followed it – Lo and Behold, half an hour later – We found the Alhambra – 10 minutes before last admissions. We decided it was too expensive to go and do the tour, so we walked about for a while trying to find a way to sneak in (not that easy since it’s a palace!’), and after a while gave up and walked home.
No joke, it took us 5 minutes to walk home. If we had stepped out our hostel earlier that day, and turned left instead of right, we would have been there in 5 minutes. Unbelievable.

Got home showered etc. We went to the supermarket and bought ourselves a lot of food and beer. Ridiculously cheap. Got back and started cooking. It was my turn to cook (because last time I just sat trying to write my blog!) so I took charge. Spanish kitchens are so stupid. They don’t have kettles, and they are very dangerous. I almost gassed us to death when I was switching on the hob. I can’t remember what we cooked. Pasta of some variety...I think it had chorizo (yuck) and various other things to make it awesome. It was a social place. People kept coming in and being well impressed by what we had cooked. Creating a good name for Scottish cooks on the road. We started drinking some (very dodgy) beer. I can’t remember whether this guy was working or just lived there, or what his name was – But let’s call him Maurice. He was a sound guy, but a total chancer. He asked us for a beer. Fair enough, not a big ask... but we had only bought enough to see US the night, and they were litres of beer...that’s basically 2 cans!! We gave him one, we didn’t wanna seem like dicks on our first night (plenty of time for that). A Luxembourgian couple sat down with us, they were eating ‘Pasta, Luxemburg style’ – I.e. pasta covered in soup. Legends, I am going to have that soon. After we had finished our food, we headed upstairs to the sun terrace. I would have to say that night we met some fantastic people. John – Raised in the Bavarian Ghettos. I had no idea whether to believe a word this guy said. He was so funny. He reminded me strongly of a chef I knew at the time, I found him fucking hilarious. He was a hardcore traveller, 30 years old and obviously hadn’t been home since he was about 20(obviously never showered either). He would occasionally tell me that my accent was so sexy that it made him quiver. He was going to take us out to a reggae club later where he could touch girls.

There was two French Canadian girls (more fucking Canadians...ah they’re pretty cool), three English girls (2 were hot and almost twins, 1 was kindof fat and had the WORST accent in the world), they were cool... very blonde. There was an American guy who was travelling on his own and didn’t stay at the hostel. An Austrian and I can’t remember who else. The Luxembourgian were quiet and stayed downstairs talking to Dom about Hearts players. I’m not really sure what happened, but we made our way through a lot of beer, and a lot of vodka. Maurice, or Moroccan (since he refused to call us anything other than ‘Scottish!’) was starting to get on my nerves. We were having good banter. He asked for some vodka... We gave him a small measure...he then said that was a pussy measure, and asked for some more. Personally I would have said no, but Dom was in charge. I was drinking stupid measures of vodka. Like almost pure vodka... why... I don’t know. We had a great conversation with the English birds, telling them about the violin man from earlier. We somehow got onto the subject that there was a man who wandered up and down the stairs in the hostel playing a flute, had they not met him yet?? I love telling stories to blondes, they are so gullible, you can literally tell them anything. (Make a mental note to start telling blonde girls ridiculous stories... maybe I can do a study to try and discover what percentage of blonde girls are actually thick as shit – no offense to anyone who is blonde, I’m just jealous)

After a while, things degenerated into a shouting match. I gave Moroccan a lesson in Scottish, teaching him ‘Och Aye the Noo’... He then asked me what it meant... I have no idea, so I made something up like ‘Everything is fine at the moment’. I was speaking rapid French to the Chinese French Canadian girl. The Moroccan kept telling us Scottish to be silent, because when we talk we shout. What a dick...everyone was shouting. I think John started to feel sad once we all got drunk and stopped listening to his strange ramblings. He needs the attention on him. He was funny though. He seemed to hate anywhere we had been, saying it was too ‘touristy’. Moroccan had an argument with the American about buying drugs in Tangier. He made a good point that when they realise you are American or ‘minted’, they try and rip you off. Maurice can’t speak to travelling friends in morocco or he’ll get arrested.

At some stage we headed out to a pub. I really am not sure what happened at this stage. We were all fucked. I somehow made friends with a Spanish guy, and told him I would get him a job in the Kings Manor in August. He gave me his mobile, email and MySpace. I made no effort to get him a job (why should I?). I am not sure if we went to another pub or what... I really don’t know. I seem to remember running along a beach away from everyone... There’s no beach in Granada. Everyone but John, Maurice and Austrian were going home. I didn’t want to go home, I wanted to go clubbing so I stayed out with them. Moroccan knows everyone in Granada and so managed to get me in for free to the club (although I’m sure at some stage I was almost getting sent home. So I went out clubbing with these three strange men. The club was totally dead when we went in, but it was one of these things where it fills up pretty quickly. I would like to say that I chatted up some really hot Spanish birds, and I would like to say I got somewhere with them... I may have done... but I have no memory, for I made a grave grave mistake.

Whenever I drink vodka lemonades, I will generally drink doubles. I got Austrian (his name may have been Gustav...or maybe I’m just making that up) to order me a double. He looked at me in shock. I was like mate, just do it. He asked the barman, and everyone around the bar looked round in shock. I was like look you Spanish fucking weirdoes, goan just give me a fucking double vodka lemonade. ‘Ok Ok, Si Senor’. The barman got a tall glass, filled it ¾ of the way up with vodka. He then opened a bottle of lemonade, and topped the glass up. He then filled the remainder of the lemonade bottle up with vodka. Fuck. Not what I had expected. Next thing I remember I’m out the club and I have no fucking clue where I am. I knew the street name I was staying on, but it was a little side street that not everyone knew about. I was completely out of money so I couldn’t get a taxi. I walked around asking people for directions. My Spanish is very limited (and what I do know is wrong) and I went up to various people saying ‘No Pablo Espaniol’. I though it meant I don’t speak Spanish. Apparently it means ‘No Paul, Spain’. I walked for fucking hours. I walked through a fucking ghetto where I thought I was gonna be killed. At one stage I thought I was close, then I seemed to end up in Venice. I think I was actually parallel to our hostel but I missed the turning and walked on for another 2 miles. It was so scary. I did make friends with 6 cats who helped me onto the right path (did they fuck they were useless), I forget their names, but I’m sure one was called tom. After walking for what seemed like days I came across a familiar site. It was an Arab palace from the 14th Century. I had somehow walked into the grounds of the Alhambra Palace. We had spent over 3 hours looking for it during the day, and the one time I don’t want to be there I have no difficulty in getting there. It was one of the strangest places I’ve ended on a walk home. Despite knowing that I was now 5 minutes from being home, I still had no idea which direction to go in... I found a nearby 5 star hotel... I staggered in and asked the woman on the desk ‘do you speak English?’ yes. How do I get home? Thankyou! I made it outside the hostel just as it was getting light, but unfortunately the adventure was not over... We only had one key, and the guys had it, and they were asleep. Fuck.

Spent 5 minutes shouting on them at the window, no answer. I slept on the door step for a while. When I woke up I was desperately needing a shit. I walked around the square, where the shops were just opening... I needed someone to let me in to do the toilet... no one would let me without buying a drink, and they wouldn’t except my loose scrap of change either. I went back to the hostel and shouted some more. No one would answer their phones either useless bastards. It was pretty chilly somehow as well. Eventually the Chinese French Canadian answered the door. She looked shocked to see me. I simply said ‘Thank you’. I Walked to the toilet, then I went to bed.