Being a scavenger hunt grand prize, lousy sandals and wrestling plates from baffled Spanish waiters. (Barcelona)

Last night was even hotter. Lying in bed at some ungodly single digit hour desperately trying to will my body into cool submission as random Spanish phrases gripped my semi consciousness was not a pleasant experience. “¿Donde esta la fuente de la gallina? Al dentro del horno del infierno.”*   Eventually I found brief sleep and, surrendering to the persistent yelps of my alarm, started my day.

Took the metro to Parc Güell where I ascended endless flights of stairs because I was not smart enough to try the energy-saving escalators (dormant until one stands on them at which point they magically begin to work). I met a lovely pair of Japanese girls who spoke marginally more English than I Japanese, and together we, along with the rest of the tourist population, discovered Gaudí, eventually ending up between the columns under the benches. I was suddenly swarmed by six hyperactive seven-year-olds asking if I was an extranjera (good guess) on a scavenger hunt for foreigners.  Like a juicy apple I was proudly presented to their teacher.

I headed up to Montjuïc with ambitious plans of immersing myself in the glories of Joan Miró.  I was surprised to be the only person waiting for the funicular.  Of course, absolutely everything was closed. Determined not to waste the effort, I walked around for what seemed like hours as my feet began to swell prodigiously. When the bloating became painful I bought the tourist bus day ticket and descended to Port Vell. Realizing that half a pastry, an ice cream bar and two bottles of water was not enough to sustain me, I patronized the promising-sounding “el Tapas Bar” and as luck would have it chose a table next to another single traveler.

With my most disarming “Come here often?” I opened up conversation with Garry the Londoner.  When he accepted my invitation to eat off my plate, I knew I had met a kindred spirit. After he had sorted his octopus issue and my peseta traveller’s cheque was denied (I failed to convince the waiter of its cash-like qualities), we followed the Rough Guide’s wisdom and visited the Palau Güell.  The house gave me the idea for the perfect tourist souvenir: Gaudí hats inspired by the colourful chimneys of the Palau.

Because by this point I was contorted with foot failure, Garry kindly held my hand to help me up the ramp to the Palau’s cellar.  But no sooner did he start to ascend when he was suddenly sliding past me down the ramp.  I lurched along a couple more paces, using my biceps on the handrails while Garry made a second attempt. Slap – slap – slllishhhh, Garry was barely able to stand upright, let along propel himself up the 30-degree ramp. Inexplicably, Garry’s shoes had no traction. What a pair, the gimp and banana peel boy. “Screw this,” we said unanimously and went barefoot in the Palau, ignoring Spanish disdain.

* * *
1 a.m. and just back from dinner with Meri, the striking Spanish model I know from Birmingham. Enjoyed every morsel of my monkfish soup, salad with tuna and cod, and potatoes with melted cheese, crispy bacon and fried onions. I had a minor culinary faux pas when I inadvertently rested my cutlery in the international sign of “meal over” and then wrestled the confused waiter when he tried to take my plate away. Hands off the potatoes, amigo.  Meri and I discussed the Spanish proclivity to talk about someone in front of their face, and she agreed it was a terrible characteristic (without admitting her own guilt).  She suggested that perhaps the woman in the restaurant yesterday did not actually say “gallina” but something else. Perhaps.

* Where is the chicken fountain? In the oven of hell.