Jaca is situated not far from the French border, in the midst of the Pyreness in the province of Huesca and was once the capital of Aragon. The town is now popular as an entry point to the mountains for winter sport and hiking. In Jaca, we located cheap accommodation in the local high school dorm rooms. "The book" made no mention of this option and we were well pleased to get a good one over "the book". We got an early night and filled our bags with supplies before catching a local bus to Sabinanigo and a minibus to Torla. From there we were on foot. We picked up a map (which we did use) and set off into the Ordesa y Monte Perdido National Park, hiking into the Ordesa valley alongisde a fast flowing river of runoff. We had entered our playground for the next three days and both felt great to be out in the wilderness, breathing the crisp, fresh air and moving those legs. While trekking, apart from having a brief conversation with an older English couple as we left Torla, we didn't speak to anyone for over two days. The trekking season hadn't started yet as we soon discovered, with large volumes of snow still covering mountains and passes, making it particularly difficult to follow trail paths buried beneath. As was our way throughout the entire trip, we had no set plan as to where we wanted to walk. Rather, we made decisions as the forks in the track presented themselves, looked at the map and got a feel for the topography, gazed ahead and considered our chances. Funtastic. No right or wrong decisions. Only new experiences, shared experiences. A few times we turned up a track and hiked a long way up steep climbs, only to find the way unpassable either due to there being a vertical rock climb or a near vertical drop down a snow face, and decided the better option would be a different way. On our first evening (the sun set at about 10pm) we stumbled into the Circo de Sound at the end of the Ordesa valley, and fell in love with the specatacular sight of the valley as the sun dimmed. After trekking for about ten hours we made our way up towards the refugio de Goriz (base for climbing Monte Perdido) and setup camp in a clearing, surrounded by waterfalls, and overlooking the stunning valley as the cloud rolled in on the moutains above. Best camp site thus far.
After a big day we took our time in the morning and had a hot breakfast, read and enjoyed being where we were. 
We made our way up to the refugio and decided against attempting Monte Perdido, due to the excessive snow cover and our lack of appropriate equipment for such a climb. Rather, we skirted around the edge of the valley and over a well snowed in pass towards the Anisclo valley.
Although each trudging step brought us to our knees in the snow we never questioned each other or our decision to take this path. We were both keen to see what it was like when we got over the pass and when we saw that the snow trailed off as we descended into the valley we continued on. We edged down into the valley, listening to the waterfalls and admiring the snow capped moutains, and reached a small shelter at the Mallo Oscuro waterfalls for lunch and a breather. 
With the option to go up or down the valley we decided to have a crack at going up, despite the visible mass of snow and an awareness that it would be steep and hard at the top. The climb up the valley river was tough but we both were more concerned about what awaited us at the snow line. Reaching the snow we had to make our own way and tried to keep to the rocky outcrops as the stability of the snow was uncertain with the sound of running water suggesting cavities and the sight of small avalanches stopping us in our tracks. The snow took over and I raised the possibility of turning back. My brother's determination and committment to the idea of making that pass, pushed him to venture out into the snow and see if we could get closer. Each step was a bit of a gamble, and we were both sinking into our knees and feeling the cold on our toes. I followed in Ben's footsteps as he battled up and along the ridge, encouraging each step as he led the way to the top. We scrambled to the top and balanced on the knifes edge as the snow dropped away on the otherside of the rim and led into a vast valley below with spectacular peaks on the opposite side. And we gasped. Ben let out a triumphanty yell and I just smiled at him. That was the moment for the trip. In Australia it had just ticked over to our father's birthday. Peaking over the edge and sizing up the extremely steep drop and potentially hidden cliff we decided that it was no longer time for doing anything stupid. We would not take the pass. We had reached the heighest point but it didn't look safe enough to continue. That was enough. A little disappointed but both satisfied with our decision we trudged back through our footsteps and made our way back down the valley. Once we got out of the snow the feeling began to return to our toes and we pushed back to the shelter where we had lunched earlier. With a wind picking up and no standout spots for a tent we made use of the shelter, cooked a well earned dinner and rolled out our sleeping bags in the dark little stone brick hut. There was enough space for two and quite a few mice who, unknown to us, charged an annoying tax of keeping us up most of the night trying to eat our food and rubbish. In the morning we quickly ate breakfast, sloshed into our wet clothes and continued on down the valley into the canyon Anisclo heading towards the southern border of the park. We were both happy to make our way to the next town and find transport back to Jaca. We walked briskly through the forest with the canyon slopes rising either side and the water run off gushing by. 
The sun broke through the clouds as we climbed a steep track out of the canyon and headed across to a small town called Nerin. We had a nice cooked lunch just out of town on the track, and used up the last of our food. In Nerin, we discovered that the bus didn't run this time of year and that we could either keep walking or catch a taxi. We were both pretty well spent and there was rain in the approaching clouds so we took the taxi option and got an expensive ride with a chatty local back to Jaca where we crashed back at the high school dorms and treated ourselves to a sit down dinner (recommended by the taxi driver).I had offset a cold at the start of the trekking. With the walking done my body saw the chance to relax and the cold and flu took hold. I soldiered on and we caught the morning bus to Barcelona, travelling through the beautiful scenery of the Pyrenees, listening to pop rock ballads. We had heard good things about Barcelona and were excited to see the city for ourselves. As was our way we arrived without accommodation booked and jumped straight on the metro and found an informacion office in town. With my unnatractive illness (cough and snot and all that stuff) we decided against checking into a dorm room in a hostel and found a nice little hotel out of the city centre. I made use of the room and rested up to recover from my cold. The next day we walked all over Barcelona visiting buildings and parks of Antoni Gaudi, whose unique architecture is dotted around Barcelona and is a draw card for many tourists. We wandered about the Park Guell, sat about on the famous serpent shaped mosaic tiled benches and scrunched our noses at the tourists, clambering over the multicoloured tiled dragon, fighting for a stooge photo. Next we headed down to the amazing Sagrada Familia, an ever under construction Roman Catholic church, which began being built in the later 1800s. The building is absolutely stunning. You can get absolutely lost in the detail in the facades and the sheer size of the effort takes hold of you. We enjoyed a gander and had a breif walk through, but there are lots of tourists there. We continued on and had a quick look at the outer facades of a few more Gaudi buildings, put off by the ques of tourists outiside standing well back from the 30 minutes till entry signs. After a beautiful day wandering about the marvelously original works of Gaudi we then went and saw the most disappointing and frustrating film, Indiana Jones IV. Way to spoil a great day. Cursing Lucas and Spielberg we walked up the beach to Barceloneta and had a paella dinner before walking up the busy, tourist trap street of La Rambla. Urban trekking.
The next day we thought we'd try being social and checked into a central hostel. As we checked in we were informed by two blonde ditses from Perth that this was the "best hostel in Barcelona". We should have recognised an odd expression like that as being straight from "the book" and run from the building. Rather, we checked in and paid for three nights. Big mistake. This turned out to be the worst hostel, chock full of loud, obnoxious, arrogant, rude, disgusting, filthy, annoying, horrible young people. It was frustrating to feel stuck there (we could have moved but we had already paid and we are cheap). I suppose sometimes it can be good to immerse yourself in what you really don't like, to ram home what it is you really do like. 
We spent a few more days kicking around Barcelona. After all our fast paced travel throughout the trip we both would have prefered to have moved on, but we had a flight booked from a nearby airport and resigned ourselves to wait. It isn't a bad city to kill some time in, but we ended up staying there too long. An afternoon was given to the Picasso museum. The permanent display covered works throughout his life which was interesting with not so classic Picasso works. The more interesting display was a collection of pieces inspired by Velazquez's Las Meninas, which we had seen at the Prado in Madrid. Fascinating to see the impact and effect of one piece of art. We wandered around the Barri Gothic, sat at the beach, explored the market, enjoyed churros and hot chocolate, avoided the hostel, bought some clothes to replace those we had destroyed, took siesta, waited for the storeowners to wake up, ate seafood tapas and went bar hopping. Barcelona has a similar feel to Melbourne in parts, although it appears to have a much stronger tourism culture, similar to that of Sydney. I learned through my travels that I am not a city traveller.
From Barcelona we bussed up to Girona to catch the cheap flight to Paris. In Paris we nutted out how to get to the front door of my brother's friend, Mo, and waited for her to arrive. Mo became my favourite person in Europe in a short amount of time. Her generosity in letting us sleep on the floor of her little Paris flat was much appreciated. It didn't take much after the terrible hostel of the previous days. With only one day for me in Paris we quickly did a drive by of most of the sights, walking to Notre Dame, along the Seine, across the bridge full of kids socialising to the Louvre and to the Eiffel Tower at night. 
The next day we took it easy and enjoyed baguettes throughout the day. The drizzle put us off walking too much so we took the metro to the Louvre which was underwhelming and overwhelming at the same time. Too many people, so much art, the crowds detracting from the experience. We wandered up to the Arc de Triomphe and around to the opera house. Continued our Spanish theme with a siesta before having dinner at the Lipp restaurant, another stop on the literary tour. The food was beautiful the wine was lovely and the desert was the best. 
In the morning, I said goodbye to Ben - "see ya in a couple of weeks" and with the customary kisses on the cheek I was gone. On my own for the first time in a while it didn't take me long to get into trouble. Checking onto the Eurostar train I almost lost my mobile passing through the security scanner, the express train was delayed at the entry to the chunnel for two hours and in London I got my face on film before having a few drinks in an English pub with a beautiful Parisian/Spanish courtesan who ended the show by giving me a flamenco lap dance. Perhaps that is a story for another day. 
In London I quickly took in the Thames and Big Ben before meeting up with my friend Charlotte, who kindly escorted me back to her London flat. Charlotte and I had a pleasant dinner in Notting Hill and a few drinks along the way. It was my shout as Charlotte was letting me crash on her couch, which proved to be the most comfortable bed I slept in for the entire trip. I was only in London the one evening but managed to do quite a bit including all the iconic London public transport, the tube, a big red double decker bus and a black cab. I'm sure there isn't much else to London. In the morning I was back on the train and out to the airport for the long flight back to Australia.
As was our custom, we arrived in Granada (inland in southern Spain) quite late and had absolutely no idea where we were or where we were going to stay. We jumped on a local bus for town and checked into the first hotel we stumbled across. The room proved adequate and had a balcony view over the lights of the main street. Very romantic, lucky we had a queen size bed to share. 
With a full stomach what better thing to do than enjoy a siesta, which we did. I was back in heaven. Refreshed and with big smiles we wandered about before sitting down to drinks and lots more tapas (montaditos mostly) in a small bar. With very little effort we quickly latched onto a group of travellers (who had all met that night at a backpackers) and followed them on to a Shisha bar. A Shisha (or Hookah) is a water pipe used for smoking. The caterpillar smokes one in Alice in Wonderland. We sat around in a group of about ten, chatting away and sucking down the fruit flavours of apple and mixed berry. Thanks kids, nice to meet you all, enjoy your travels, we're off to Madrid.
This was a cultural experience that, after seeing, was not to be missed. We were particularly lucky as we were in Madrid towards the end of a major tournament. Crowds of well dressed locals made their way passed the overpriced food stalls and hired leather cushions as they filled into the arena taking their places on marked out sections on the concrete benches ringing around the stadium. The two brothers managed to find their reserved seats and got ready for something. In a completely full, circular stadium the brightly dressed teams of matadors, picadores (horsemen) and other assistants entered the arena and prepared themselves after bowing to the higherbeings in the grandstand. 
The ring emptied and a confused bull entered. Not knowing the nature of a bullfight it was a fascinating spectacle. There are various stages to a bullfight with trumpets sounding the beginning of the next phase. Firstly, the bull is run around by the banderilleros (flag men) who flash pink capes from hideaways in the walls. Once the bull has had a bit of a jog, they send in the picadores on horseback. The matador then gets the bulls attention and directs him to the heavily armoured horses. Once the bull spots the horse they usually charge and try and lift the horse, at which point the picador rams the first two lances into the bulls neck. This is mostly to show the bulls ferocity. The horses then trot off and two matadors take turns at jamming two coloured spikes (banderillas - we called them umbrellas) into the bulls flank. With the bull now a bit grogy the matador re-enters the ring with a red cape (muleta) and sword. Here is where he shows his skill and courage, enticing the bull with the cape (bulls are colourblind, the cape is red to hide the blood stains) to charge him repeatedly. The crowd cheer the closer the matador is willing to let the bull get to him and the number of repeat passes. When the matador feels the bull has had enough he stands straight on with the bull and in a single thrust, stabs the sword through the bulls shoulder blades and heart. We both let out a short gasp the first time this happened, as the bulls which came into the ring earlier and nearly lifted a horse and ripped palings off the walls, stumbled and died. If the bull doesn't die from the sword, the bullfighter puts it out of its misery with a small knife to the neck. The bulls horns are then tied and the beast is dragged from the arena by a team of horses. Six bulls were killed in the evening, two bulls each for three matadors. The flashiest matador and the only one who actually copped the horn (we quietly cheered) was the eventual winner. It was interesting that as I watched I desensitised to the violence and appreciated the skill of the matador. You kind of look past the bull. It was a fascinating experience. Afterwards we shuffled out through the crowd and made the long walk back to the hostel, both in a bit of a daze. 
Our intention for the next day was to hire a car and drive north to the Picos de Europa mountains in north central Spain. However, in a fantastic moment of spontaneous travel our plans changed. As we made our way to the hire car office, within 50m of the door, I turned to my brother and said I didn't feel comfortable hiring the car and would prefer to go by bus. My brother was a little confused, having looked forward to getting behind the wheel of a car, but followed my thought and we went to the bus station. At the station we gaped at the screen and noticed that there wasn't a bus going where we wanted for a while, but there was a bus going to San Sebastian in ten minutes. "Wanna go to San Sebastian instead?" "Why not?" And we were on the bus heading north to the Basque city of Donostia (San Sebastian). That is why we don't do tours. The freedom to make spot decisions, follow your gut, change plans and follow white rabbits is one of the most important parts of travel for me. Sure you get into trouble every now and again and take wrong turns, but that is part of the fun. The idea of someone else making those wonderful decisions for me, that is madness.
