You know that feeling when you go on holiday and it rains? Yeah, that! But, hold on, an intrepid backpacker doesn’t let a soggy hoody put him off; he ventures out, instagrams some architecture, slurps some cortado’s, and keeps going…! No flying home in a strop for me!

So, you may remember when we last spoke, I was about to embark on my first shared sleeping experience. Although, to be honest, I’ve done it before, when I was trekking in the jungle and across the sahara. But, that was with a group of people I had just met. This time, it was a room of 6 beds, and a medley of strangers in their pants.

I felt a bit cheated though. When I turned up, it seemed like a bit of a ’boutique’ hostel- so not quite as rough and ready as I perhaps should be daring to experience! I duly packed my valuables into a locker, airing each semi-naked stranger with suspicion, and found my bed, number 3. Although some American woman was in it, so we agreed I’d take 6, which was hers. Thank god she was awake when I walked in. I may have mistaken her for a pile of blankets!

The UK tourist in me then had a momentary relapse and I walked to McDonald’s for a chicken big mac. I then returned to the hostel, uncharacteristically ordered a beer in the bar and then made my way to my room, bed number 6.

The semi-naked strangers had mostly dug themselves under the covers, so it was down to me to provide all the banging and clanging noises whilst they dozed off. I took some Melatonin I bought on eBay and then attempted to sleep. It took a while, maybe I was over-excited. I certainly didn’t feel uncomfortable or unsafe, which can of course be a fear when staying in a hostel.

I somehow fell into the deepest sleep ever, and that’s the end of the story. This morning, I had a rather lacklustre hard-breaded breakfast in the hostel, and ventured out, leaving my main backpack in the locker room. I packed my £1000 of electronics into my flimsy backpack.

It was RAINING as I left the hostel. The floors of the Pedrera were too wet for it to open! I ordered a takeaway cup of my latest obsession (cortado) and roamed the streets in my European outfit of red crossfit trainers, marbled jeans and a somewhat mainstream T-shirt. I had some juice in the Bouqeria, chuckled at the chili willy seeds on Las Ramblas and now I sit eating a crepe with ham and cheese inside. The waitress thought I was Spanish, so I had no idea the plate would give me almost third degree burns. Must grab a phrase book.

I’m in Placa Reial, one of my favourite places, achingly exotic, chilled, buzzy, and full of puddles. MUST NOT MOAN. I’m going to the Picasso next, then I’ll be trekking my stuff across the city to my 3-night hotel stay. Ironically, the hotel is 5 times the price of the hostel per night, let’s see who wins the ‘accommodation off’….

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