The Ferias of Andalucia: Los Naveros

I’ve grown up around fairs. In fact, I’ve spent a lot of time at some of the most country fairs that exist in the little backcountry towns of Oklahoma. Nothing could have ever prepared me for this kind of fair. From April to November every year, each small town in southern Spain takes its turn hosting a fair, or feria in Spanish. Most ferias are typical American type fairs with a procession of dinky fair rides, chocked full of calorie fair food and carnies.  Only, there are small differences, and at some feria’s, these differences are much more evident than at others. My first feria experience was in Los Naveros, a small town about 18 miles away from San Ambrosio.

I knew we were riding to the feria, but I really had no idea what to expect.  I had seen the townsmen riding to other ferias in prior weeks and I knew it involved a lot of booze and many hours in the saddle.

We started the procession. Rachel, Vinny, Jose and I left our barn about 8:30 AM and headed towards Los Naveros, knowing we were about to partake in about a 4 hour journey. As we passed by Paco’s house, Paco (and his son, Paco) both came out to join us on two of their stallions. As we passed by Braulio’s house, Braulio joined us on his purebred Spanish mare. As we rode past house after house, man after purebred Spanish man would come bounding down his driveway on his purebred Spanish steed.  And after about a half an hour riding through San Ambrosio, we had acquired about 40 horses and their riders. Rachel and I were the only women, but we were told it was ok because we weren’t Spanish. Even though we picked up another 200 or so horses on the way to Navarro, we remained the only women in the procession.

We rode for hours through the countryside. I learned quickly that my Spanish was going to have to improve if I were to survive this day at all. About 11 AM, we pulled up to a field where there were 3 or 4 tractor trailers waiting for us with all of the women in the back. They had cooked us breakfast: tortillas, chorizo, manchego, bread and (naturally) sherry; lots of sherry. From here, the tractors led us – our own personal moving bar & grill. Fully stocked with gin & tonic, beer, sherry, summer wine and anything else you could fancy to drink. And drink we did.

We arrived at a gate at about 12:30 which was unlocked and opened by a man in a golf cart. He ushered the 100 or so horses in the gate and closed it behind it to lock us in as he rushed ahead about a mile to open the corresponding gate on the other side of the field. Suddenly, I realized why we were locked in, as I glanced to my right and spotted a herd of about 100 fighting bulls about 100 meters away. “Put on my jacket,” Paco demanded, “you’re wearing red and the bulls are trained to run to it.” Are you serious? They could see me from that far away? “Well, you’re more than welcome to chance it, if you’d like.” No thanks, I’ll take the jacket. About 20 minutes later, as the bulls slowly began walking towards us, I asked Antonio what we should do if the bulls start running towards us. “You run as fast as you can towards that gate, let the men take care of it,” he casually responded. Great plan.

So I can’t really relay to you the amount of panic that ensued, when a couple of minutes later I hear thundering hooves coming from behind me and a man screaming. I turned around to see a man on a beautiful stallion barreling full speed from about a quarter of a mile away. He was screaming in Spanish but I had no idea what.  He was coming right for me, but I had nowhere to move – and I have a feeling if I had moved, he would have moved with me. Because this stud was after one thing and one thing only: my mare. The next thing I know, the horse runs right into me and all I see is hooves as he attempts to mount my horse while I am still on her. Naturally (good girl) she kicks out at him and he runs off to his next victim, which happened to be anything and everything in front of him: four or five other horses, one of the tractor trailers and eventually the ground  as his poor rider gets tossed to all ends of the world. All the while, the bulls are standing about 50 yards away just watching, wondering whether to charge or not, and all of us are praying that they stay put; which fortunately, as we picked up the pieces of horse, rider and tack, they did.

Next on our agenda was our parade. A procession of our now just over 100 horses trotting through the streets of town after town while families poured out of their houses to take pictures, throw confetti and cheer us on. And then we were there. We came upon a field with several flagged areas set up, a couple rides and many tents. We all dismounted, grabbed a beer and a bite to eat out of the trailer and stood around with our ponies for the next 3 or 4 hours drinking, chatting and watching the amazing caliber of horses that seemed to emerge out of the sticks of Southern Spain. We saw display after display of horses trained to lay down with their riders on board, horses walking on their back legs, horses doing cabrioles in any empty space and tons of horse related feria activities which included ribbon races, dancing, obedience and then traditional doma vaquera. It was incredible. Here we started to see a couple other women riding, but only on the back of the horse, sitting sideways in flamenco dresses while their significant others rode up front.

Here we sat and got pretty much trashed. By about 5 PM when it was time to start back to home, I thought I was going to have to sleep the whole way back. I’d kicked back at least a 12 pack and a half bottle of sherry. And there was no end in sight as even when the trailer’s booze supply ran out, the men mysteriously produced hip flasks and saddle flasks full of cool dry sherry – full with accompanying glasses and everything. When I politely declined a pour from Antonio explaining that I didn’t have a glass, he shook his head and produced a spare out of his saddle bag, “Don’t worry,” he said, “I always carry an extra.” Of course you do.

So we stumbled (or rather, our horses did) slowly back to the house. At this point, I thought my knees might dislocate. I was no longer drunk, but hungover. It was dark (we didn’t get home until almost midnight) and we were trusting that our horses could see in the pale moonlight. Vinny and I were cursing profusely at our heads, stomachs and aching bodies as we slid off back at the yard, threw our saddles in the van, and then poured ourselves into bed.

But all pain was forgotten the next morning as we recounted the best day in any of our lives and plans were already being made to do the ride again the following year, with a bit more preparation.  And as I retell the story week after week for the new guests that come in, I still can’t believe the day actually happened. And I count down the days to submit myself to such misery again next year.

The Best Job in the World

A little over a year ago, I was soliciting the help of most of you to help me win a contest that I’m sure I was not alone in entering: The Best Job in the World. It was a contest to be employed by the department of tourism in Queensland Australia as a sort of “mascot” if you will, for tourism in the area.  Needless to say, I was devastated when through a sequence of events, my application was not considered for the position. Though I listened to my mothers advice, “it wasn’t meant to be, something else will come along!” I didn’t really want to hear it.

But now, I realize that although the job on Hamilton Island would have been amazing, it is not the last opportunity I will have to work a dream job and is rather, just one of many jobs I’m sure I will hold over the next 20 years. 

I have found the best job in the world – for me. I work at a riding holiday called Los Alamos where every day I wake up, do what I love, spend time with amazing people and fall asleep knowing that life doesn’t get much better than this.  If you need to catch up on what a riding holiday is, read my post from last week. If you’re caught up, let me give you a glimpse of my typical workday.

8:00 AM – Alarm goes off, time to get up

8:10 AM – stumble out of my bedroom door and into the Red VW van already running and ready for me to drive up to the horses

8:15 AM – arrive at horses and tack them up with Jose and Rachel for the days ride. Sometimes Mitch or Jesus (the two forest guards or guardabosques) will stop by on their stallions for a chat or to help out with the horses.

9:15 AM – back to the Jacaranda (the name of our house) for breakfast. Tea, orange juice, muesli and a banana for me. Sometimes a Sprite or a Coke as well if I’m especially in need of caffeine.

10:00 AM – back up to the horses to meet the guests for the day’s ride, mount my steed and head out for the day’s ride. I usually ride backup, at the very back of our little procession watching for problems and communicating with the lead if we need to stop for any reason – it’s a relatively uneventful position to be in and I generally pass the time chatting with guests or studying up my Spanish on my iPhone.

1:00 PM – we arrive at lunch somewhere in the forest or on the beach. I sit the guests down, order drinks and food and then help wait the table. While I’m not doing that, I am chatting with Jose and the bar owners, eating my meal and having a couple glasses of Tinto de Verano.

2:00 PM – back on the horses to head home

3:00 PM – arrive at the field, untack the horses, hose them down and wipe down the bridles.

3:30 PM – as fast as possible, change from my riding clothes into a swimsuit and run straight to the pool to jump in. Spend the afternoon laying out, reading a book, drinking a beer.

5:30 PM – Siesta.

8:00 PM – set the dinner table and eat dinner w/ the guests.

9:15 PM – finish dinner up, walk to Miguel’s for a couple after work brews.

11:30 PM – in bed, ready for another day.

I eat dinner w/ the guests three days a week, that’s it. The rest of the days, I am finished with work at 3:30 and spend the afternoons at the beach, down at the bar, shopping in Barbate or if I had a considerably rough evening at Miguel’s the night before, a REALLY long siesta.

I have Wednesday’s off. That means sleeping in, laying out all day, doing basically nothing.

Thursday’s, when the guests are in Jerez, I feed the horses in the morning, ride out for an hour or two  if I feel like it, help Rhiannon clean rooms if she needs it (which she generally does not) and feed the horses again in the afternoon.  Same on Sunday when one group of guests leaves and the other returns. I have so much free time, it’s ridiculous. I read the entire twilight series in 10 days. I’ve seen more movies in the past 3 months than I have in 3 years. I study Spanish, I go to the beach, I sew clothes, I’m redesigning the Los Alamos website. I have so much time to think about what I ACTUALLY want to do that I’m getting spoiled on always doing what I want to, when I want to.

But I don’t care. Because now I know that this is possible, so I refuse to ever work a job where I am not happy 95% of the time ever again.

Riding Holidays for Dummies

This post may seem like an endorsement and that is because it is just that. I am not getting “paid” by Los Alamos to write said post, but since I do live/work here, I have a feeling I will get some extra dessert or maybe first choice on horses next week. I would write this regardless.

Riding Holiday (ˈrī•dēng 'häl•i•dā)
-noun
a freaking amazing place where you go on vacation for a set period of time, ride horses everyday, drink a lot, eat a lot and do other fun vacation stuff.

Ok, so maybe that didn’t come RIGHT out of the dictionary. The point is, if you had asked me 5 years ago what a riding holiday was, I would have laughed and asked if it was some codeword for a honeymoon or something equally as juvenile.  But now that I have been enlightened to the glory that is the riding holiday, I am compelled to share this information with anyone and everyone who will listen.

You will be especially interested in this post if you ride horses, and not like “oh, one time I sat on a pony at the Jonesboro County Fair and it was AWESOME” kind of riding. For those of you finding yourselves short on equestrian talent, maybe this is inspiration to get out there and take some lessons – and then come visit me :)

So I’m going to speak generally about riding holidays here, but really I’m mostly talking about my riding holiday, which is Los Alamos Equestrian Holidays in San Ambrosio, Spain.

The general premise of a riding holiday is that you pay for, say, a week of all-inclusive vacation.  What you get with this payment is all the normal all-inclusive benefits (think unlimited food and booze) but with an equestrian twist. Here is the typical schedule for one of our normal Sunday to Sunday holidays.

Sunday

Pick up at the airport, lunch on the patio at Los Alamos, intro to horses, afternoon by the pool

Monday

4 hour ride in the morning around the amazingly gorgeous pine forest around our house including a stop at the Torre de Meca an old Moorish lookout tower and the Trafalger Mirador a lookout from the top of a cliff out over Cabo de Trafalger and the Los Caños lighthouse. Tie the horses outside of Venta Los Majales del Sol in the forest for lunch, a bar who only cooks food for us, usually Spanish style tortillas and fresh asparagus, tomato and tuna salad accompanied by a big jug of Tinto de Verano or “Summer Wine,” a Sangria type wine cocktail. Naturally capped off with an authentic and amazing Spanish coffee.  Dinner tonight, as with every night, is back at Los Alamos, either on the patio or inside the large common room and includes three courses of delicious Spanish and English dishes. As well as unlimited booze. Is anyone surprised I’ve gained 15 pounds since moving here?

Tuesday

4 hour ride in the morning down to the beaches in Los Caños de Mecca with long canters in the sand dunes, a couple canters on the beach and if the tide is right, an impossibly long full out gallop along the Playa de Zahora. Tie up the horses at a bank of trees near one of the dunes and lunch is at Las Dunas, an adorable hippie bar/restaurant on the beach serving up the best Olives in the world and simple but delicious sandwiches. Maybe today, we try a Rebojito, which is sherry’s response to the Tinto de Verano, a white wine sherry (fino) spritzer. And duh… coffee.

Wednesday

My day off, how am I supposed to know what they do? Ok, just kidding. Another 4 hour ride in the morning around the forest, past the old San Ambrosio hermitage, the view of the windmills (both old and new), past the largest dovecote in the world and a stop at Venta Canuto’s (Miguel’s) bar for lunch. The ride (like it does everyday) arrives back in San Ambrosio around 2:30 and the rest of the afternoon is yours to lay out by the pool, go to the beach, walk to the Dove Cote bar for a gin & tonic or take a siesta with the rest of Spain.

Thursday

A day off for the horses. Andrew takes the whole lot to Jerez de la Frontera for a day trip. After a traditional Spanish breakfast you head to the carriage driving museum, to the stables to look at the carriage driving horses at the Royal Andalusian School of Equestrian Art and then take in a show at the Royal School of their stallions doing Doma Vaquera, Doma Classica both in hand and ridden as well as a carriage driving show. It’s absolutely amazing. After the show, you head to a local sherry man for some sherry tasting.

Friday

Another beach ride, similar to Tuesday but giving us a little leg room if the tides are better on one day or the other. Whichever day is better, the ride extends past the wildflower field out to El Palmar beach and we spend a solid 2 hours in the sand before lunch back at Las Dunas again.  Dinner tonight is special, as Rachel and I take the group back to Los Majales where one of Antonio’s cousins (who happens to be a professional flamenco singer) puts on a show with Antonio’s sister, Conchi, Rachel, myself and any other flamenco dancing passersby dance after a huge feast of fried chili peppers, chicken paella and an amazing assortment of local chorizo and ham.

Saturday

Last day of riding. We take a bit of a shorter ride this day to a look out of the Porto de Barbate and then walk a half a mile up an old Roman Road up the coast of Barbate from the beach up to another Moorish lookout tower and one of the most spectacular views of Morocco (less than 8 miles away from us at this point) you can get from this area.  Lunch today is a Venta Luis in San Ambrosio and includes a feast of Calamari, Grilled Vegetables, Garlic Chicken, Russian Salad and Garlic Pork. After this we do a quick ride back home possibly including a stop at the Corkscrew, if the group is up for it, an intense downhill gallop on one of the many firebreaks in the area. This is not for the faint of heart.

This ain’t your grandmamma’s trailride. This is fast paced long distance riding. I’ve ridden horses competitively my whole life and when I first came out here, it took me a couple of days before I was truly adjusted. Each day has at least 5 or 6 long and difficult canters or gallops including the Corkscrew (mentioned above), the Rollercoaster – a similar downhill firebreak canter, as well as many full out firebreak gallops and wiggly forest canters. People riding here have to be in complete control at all times and are encouraged to pave their own way rather than follow nose to but with the horse in front of them.

In addition, the horses we have are amazing. Yes we have some quieter horses for people who need a bit more confidence; but not many. Most of our horses are lively, spirited and absolutely love to run. Several of the horses are classically trained dressage horses coming to us from Antonio, our best friend horse whisperer and amazing dressage trainer in Vejer. We have a 4 year old filly Andalucian/Cob cross who is one of our most popular rides, a dozen or so full bred Andalucian horses with papers, and 3 horses who are bred out of the Spanish National Champion Doma Vaquera stud. 

I’m not really sure why we don’t embrace this more in American culture, but the holiday I’m on here is not that unique. These places exist all over the world, and Brits are taking advantage of them every day. If you are a rider, or know someone who is, I highly encourage you to take a look at some of these and try them out. Some cool sites to check out are:

In the Saddle
Riding Holidays
Far and Ride
Equitour
Equitours
Los Alamos

Finding "campera" to be less of an insult everyday

Welcome to the campo. The Spanish countryside. The veins and capillaries in the extremities of this large county that keep everything working, that keep us aware of why this country is so great. Welcome to San Ambrosio: my home. My tiny 400 or so person town somewhere in the forest between Barbate and Vejer de la Frontera. Never heard of those “cities” either? How about half way between Cadiz and Tarifa? Hmm… those cities not striking a bell either? Look at a map. Find the southernmost tip of Spain, the part that almost touches Morocco. Now move your finger up the coast to the left an hour’s worth of driving. That’s me.

I live 20 minutes drive from the nearest grocery store, 20 minutes drive from the nearest bank, an hour drive from the nearest “department store”, an hour and a half drive to the nearest airport, 2 and a half hours drive to the nearest train station. If this isn’t remote, I don’t know what is. But despite my distance from most of the amenities I would have previously considered important, I have everything I need and rarely find the need to go to any of the aforementioned places. Why do you need a bank when you don’t use money? Why do you need a grocery store when you grow your food yourself? Why do you need a department store when sew your own clothes? Why do you need and airport or train station when you have absolutely no intention of leaving?

You can get to San Ambrosio from the three nearest “towns”: Los Caños de Meca, Vejer de la Frontera and Barbate. But no matter which direction you come from, you will have to drive on an unpaved road at some point. Once you’re in town, there are two main “streets.” One, Zarzadilla, has most of the resident homes, the vacation homes, the full time residents and the farms. The other, what I refer to as the Yellow Brick Road, because it is just that… a yellow brick road… boasts the towns two fine dining establishments, amply named Luis and Miguel’s. These are also the town’s two pubs. Luis food is amazing and seasonal. If he kills a boar in the forest, we get boar for a couple weeks, if he finds some exotic fish at the market; we get exotic fish for a week or so. He always has chicken, pork, the most amazing Russian Salad and the best French fries I’ve probably ever had in my life. Miguel’s menu is a bit simpler, but just as impressive. His chicken ka-bob’s rival the best of them and he cooks a dogfish that makes me water at the mouth. 

Miguel's as seen from my back porch.Miguel’s is less than 50 yards from my backdoor. One day, while I was laying out by the pool, I heard someone shouting my name – it was Miguel. He was standing on the back porch of the bar and was wondering why I wasn’t watching the US world cup football game, which I had completely forgot about. “Hurry up and come over here,” he said “and I’ll turn on the game for you.” Because of proximity (and my now amazing friendship with the owner) I find myself at Miguel’s almost every night. He closes the bar when me and my other friends leave, not a minute earlier, not a minute later – sometimes that’s 11 PM, sometimes it’s 4:30 AM. It’s just friends hanging out at someone’s house for all I’m concerned. 

Every morning, I am woken up by the roosters next door. They’re a bit overzealous and tent to crow from about 6 AM until about 9 AM, just to make sure. I call it a built in snooze button. But they’re persistent at least, seeming to gawk around until everyone in town is awake. All of my neighbors have their own chickens, pigs, turkeys, ducks and cows. Every morning, Paco, one of my neighbors, walks his cows from his garden out to grazing land down the street right by my window.  And everyone has horses. The men here parade their horses around like fancy cars, and these horses are fancy. We’re talking purebred Andalucian stallions that Braulio and Paco ride to Miguel’s, Luis or Antonio’s (another bar deeper in the forest). We’re talking stallions that rival the talent of Lippizaner stallions and who can dance on command, half-pass across an open field and rear up on command. 

This place is like a throwback in time. The other day, the water out at the horses seemed to be turned off, so I walked over to Paco’s to ask him what was going on and if his water was off as well. He said he was watering his garden and must be taking up all the pressure. He apologized and sent me off with three grocery bags full of fresh produce – a peace offering. I marched back to my house with heads of fresh romaine lettuce, eggplant, zucchini, potatoes and fresh tomatoes. Today while I was trying to take my daily siesta at about 3 PM, I hear a man on a loudspeaker. It’s the chicken guy – who comes to bring the chickens. “Get your chickens ladies, I’ve got brown ones, white ones, old ones, young ones, ones that can be next month’s dinner, ones that can be tonight’s dinner.” He drives around town and all the women in town march down to the truck and get their live chickens which then get each get placed in their own little chicken coop either for eggs, dinner or for making more chickens. I saw a woman trade him a goat one time for two chickens.

Yesterday, I went to the beach with one of my friends Vicky, and she can’t drive, so we hitched a ride in a tractor down to the water. Her boyfriend Antonio was going to drive us, but he wanted to take a nap instead, so he yelled out his window at a tractor driving past and asked the man behind the wheel (who happened to be his cousin, because everyone here is related somehow) if he would take us down to the beach. “Of Course!” he said “hop on in.” Uh… ok!

That’s the kind of place I live in right now. A town where people still ride horses to the bars and tie them up outside while they’re in having their drinks. A town where when I stop hearing the turkey gobbling over at Miguel’s, I know to run over there quick to claim some of the white meat before it’s all gone. A town where the mounted forest guard comes to help me feed the horses on Thursday morning’s because he knows I’m going it by myself – without me having to ask.

This is how life should be.



I can talk about forever, for a day or two – but I still got a lot of leaving, left to do

If you know me at all, you know that I’m quite restless – I don’t really like sitting still. A small example of this inability to remain in one place is if you take the past 2 years of my life. Since May 2008, I have lived in 6 different apartments, in 6 different cities, in 3 different states and 3 different countries.  I would rather saw my own arm off than sign a lease and when you ask me what I’m planning on doing with my life in 6 months it will usually sound something like “anything but what I’m doing right now.” I used to say that my theme song was Dierks Bently’s “Still got a lot of leaving left to do.”

Until now.

Spain has achieved the impossible. It has managed to tame down this broken vagabond. Spain has reeled me in and though I’m still trying to twist away from it’s grasp, I’m not sure that I can. Yes, that’s right little readers, I am considering making the leap from backpacker to ex-pat – a change many of us go through, but I never thought it would happen this soon.

So how did I get here; how did I let this place take control of the wheel? Well, that’s not so easily explained, as I’m not really sure myself. But rather than try to speculate, I’m going to slowly walk you through this love story from day one. Maybe we can both figure it out together then. 

Part 1 - My town: San Ambrosio

Part 2 - My job: Los Alamos Riding Holiday

Busses, bad Spanish and the best huevos rotos EVER

Back to Spain we go. And after that ridiculously stressful day in Faro, I am ready for some more normalcy.

We were more than lucky with the bus situation. We had bought tickets from Faro to Sevilla yesterday, knowing that we would need to switch trains (and companies) in Sevilla to head south to Tarifa. I searched for hours on the internet and could never find anything in the form of an actual bus timetable.  But I did know it was possible and so we thought we’d just try and figure it out. 

We caught the first bus from Faro to Sevilla, arriving in Sevilla just after noon. After I asked several confused people in terribly broken Spanish which window we would needed to visit to buy tickets to head down to Tarifa, it was finally explained, in terribly broken English, that we had to go to another bus station.  Uh. Ok?

So we boarded a local bus bound for the airport, which was promised to take us to the other station. But when the bus driver told us to get off, I saw no such station. So again, in my surprisingly terrible Spanish, I asked shop owners, passers by, a police officer. No one seemed to know where we were trying to go. Finally, a guy selling sunglasses on the sidewalk realized what I was trying to do and pointed me in the right direction. After walking to where he told us to, finding nothing in the form of a bus station, I asked one final woman in an office building who pointed us to the small staircase that led to the bus station we were looking for. Walking up to the counter, we realized that we had 10 minutes before the bus left, and it was a good thing we made it, as the next bus didn’t leave for 6 hours.

More bus riding ensued, thankfully, and we arrived in Tarifa early afternoon, in perfect time for a stroll down to the port and a stop for tapas. We checked into our hostel, a place I’d been before called the Melting Pot, had a cocktail and headed out for an early dinner. We stumbled upon the most AMAZING restaurant.  It was incredibly simple, really cheap and had the most amazing food.  We had huevos rotos, which was basically a twist on a large Spanish style tortilla with eggs, potatoes, tomatoes, onions, cheese and other yumminess. We also split a large pan of seafood paella and a couple bottles of €2 wine. The place was so great that when we got back from touring around Tangier the following day, we walked straight off the boat and back into our now favorite little Spanish restaurant. Nothing else for us to see here :)

Hello sun, it's nice to see you again.

Leaving Germany, for me, was pretty easy. I was impressed by the culture and history of this country, but for some reason, getting back to Spain was something I couldn’t stop thinking about. Although I knew we had a couple of days before I would be “moving home” so to speak, just being back in a country where I could feign knowledge of the language was, at least, refreshing.

We only spent 2 days in Barcelona and not a lot happened, so I will spend a paragraph, at most, recounting the events. Our entire existence revolved around food and booze. We walked around La Rambla, got tapas, drank beer, searched for paella, and that’s about it. On our second day, Emmy and I took the hop on/hop off bus while Brian attempted to go pick his cousin up at the airport (HA! I thought I could leave the kid to his own for 5 hours, but he didn’t seem to make it too well on his own and ended up taking the wrong train an hour in the opposite direction of the airport). After we reconnected with B Lee and his cousin, we grabbed paella down by the port and just went back to the hostel to go to bed. Super exciting.

But I wasn’t too bothered by our lame existence in our short days in Barcelona because we made up for it in awesomeness once we got to Lisbon. First off, our hostel was the most amazing hostel. EVER. It is so amazing, that I will spend an entire blog entry tomorrow telling you why it’s awesome and why you should make a trip to Lisbon JUST to stay at this hostel. But in addition to this, I just found Lisbon to be a really magical city. Its absolutely beautiful, first off, and located right on the water in a river inlet. We walked for a long time, down to the water, around the downtown area initially looking for a beach, but without too much direction couldn’t find one (only to find out later that there isn’t one near, and you must go about 30 minutes by bus to get to one).

The best part of this city for me was what we did once we realized that the beach wouldn’t be an option. This involved the likes of sitting down at a street café for round about 5 hours. The scene was pretty simple. Emily had a book. I had a computer and a notebook and was busy recounting the events of the past couple of days. Brian his journal and was doing much the same as myself. Each of us had a drink of choice: a jug of Sangria, a bottle of wine, a capriocha. We sat there and drank, ate tapas and listened to an amazing guitarist for hours. It was warm enough for sun dresses and I finally felt like I was getting warmer to home.

To top it off, we had an incredible dinner at McDonald’s. Don’t judge. It was incredible. And then we went back to the hostel to participate in a bit of karaoke night (that turned a bit too weird for our likings) and to watch the Simpson’s and Family Guy on a gigantic tele. It was the perfect down evening we were all looking for since we started this incredible binge drinking trip over a week before, but none of us had enough courage to ask for. It was a calmly unspoken agreement when we all retired before 11 and we all woke refreshed the next morning and ready to catch the train down to Faro.

The bird flies away to Italy

Location: Florence, Italy

Yikes, today was rough. After my near mugging incident I was a little shaken up so I drank a little too much vino for dinner and things only went downhill from there. We went to the clubs again, which was great fun. Things start to get clear again at about 5:30 when me and one of the boys were walking back to my hostel to get my backpack but we sort of got lost and then somehow, randomly, 3 of the other guys found us wandering the streets and directed us back where we were supposed to be going. I got my backpack, caught the metro to the bus station, took the 2 hour bus ride to the airport and then the 2 hour flight to Rome. From there, I got on a bus to the metro station, metro to the train station and then took a slow speed (so it was free) train to Florence which took about 3 hours. I slept for most of the traveling because I hadn't slept last night, but it was a rough morning to say the least.

Florence is beautiful!! It's warmer than Barcelona by a little bit and I'm already in love with the city. Plus, the people here speak Italian and I could listen to it for hours and I have no idea what they're saying at all. Even when they're yelling at eachother (which seems to happen quite often) it just sounds so pretty :) I'm glad I will be here for a long time. I haven't had any good food yet because I haven't been hungry yet today, but I think I'll be hitting that up in the next hour or so. Nothing else really to report. Hopefully my weekend will be exciting. Gid, Shaun and Greg from Australia are meeting me here tomorrow and staying for a couple days and then Andre from Brazil is coming in town on Tuesday so I'll be kept busy with old friends (Ha!).

XOXO

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