El Granado Hostel, Granada, Spain.

Blog

jimmy Hogg

06 Mar
2015

Friday
March 6th,
7.15pm
El
Granado Hostel, Granada, Spain.

So,
I just briefly looked into the contents of someone else’s suitcase.
That’s sounds worse that it is. It was  open and there was a book on
top and I wanted to see what nationality the person was by looking at
the book. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what nationality the person is,
because the persons book is a fucking colouring book- and it’s not a
present because some of them have been done- the colourings in I
mean. So, yeah, I’m in a dorm room with someone who likes to do
colouring in- they have a shit load of pencils and some felt tip
pens. This is weird… right? I’m not mental.

Anyway.
Today I spent being hungover- the first of the trip and it was a
goody. Here’s what’s been going on.

The
bus to Granada was easy, read most of the way and napped and ate a
delicious orange. From the bus station I managed to navigate my way
to the hostel, the guy I asked for directions was stunned that I was
going to walk- this guy doesn’t even know, that’s what I fucking do
mate. Granada is fucking beautiful by the way, I won’t bore
you/myself with details but basically there are snowcapped mountains
and loads of lovely buildings that The Moors left here- it’s old as
fuck and it’s sunny all of the time. Boom. Well done Granada.

The
hostel is beautiful, immaculate, the woman who checks me in spends
about twenty minutes with me going over the map and explaining what’s
what- and it’s all in Spanish and I’m following around sixty per cent
of it and it takes a supreme amount of concentration- I’m basically
retranslating things she said between four and eight seconds ago
while also listening to what she’s sating in the present. Anyway, she
was lovely and being almost too helpful- apparently that’s what the
peeps in this town are like, they just want everyone to see the best
of their city and have a great time. I immediately decide to stay
three nights and not two as I’d originally thought, which has proved
wise since I’ve spent most of today being a massive bag of shit.
Wasting a day being hungover always leaves one reappraising ones life
and insisting that you don’t do it again, it’s doubly so the case
when travelling because you may never see/experience these things
again.

I
go out for a wander, I eat a falafel, there’s loads of
Muslims/Moroccans and in the old Moorish quarter and they do it very
well. I walk up windy, narrow, cobble-stoned streets to a viewpoint
where you can see all the nice shit and the sunset. People are
drinking wine and beer in the street, I kinda want to too, but if I
start drinking beer on my own outside is that when I technically
become an actual tramp? It’s a slippery slope I fear.

I
grab a drink in this cool hole-in-the-wall place, they give me free
tapas and I remember that that’s the thing about Granada, the free
food with every drink. I realise that I’m going to have dinner by
ordering enough drinks which is obviously the best/worst decision one
can make, but it seems de rigeur and I go with it. Five tapas bars
later I decide I’ll try one more before going back to the hostel and
catching some Z’s, I’m pretty pooped… And then I run into an
English fella, he’s roommates with the owner of the bar we’re in. He
teaches part time in a primary school in town and spends the rest of
his time loafing about doing whatever he damn well pleases. He’s from
Swansea but says he’s from Bristol mostly because he sounds like he’s
English not Welsh and he’s finds it less bothersome to explain things
this way.

I
drink some local beer called 1925 or something and another local beer
I don’t remember the name of- basically both six percent (ish) lagers
that are crushable. The owner insists I taste a range of sweet
liquers, wines and sherries that are local and you can’t even get
anywhere- most of the bottles don’t even have labels- even the
especially weird local nutter I was chatting to before English Jack
chimed in shakes his head and looks concerned. He, also, in keeping
with my aura, is totally gay. That’s my niche in Spain- the gay guy
who no one else will speak to because they’re just too odd. It’s
actually a gay old town here- at the hostel they have a separate map
which shows all of the gaybars and such. Clearly I don’t need this
map because I draw them in with my placid aura of affability and
openness to new things, like Spanish cock.

Anyway,
I’m not sure what time I left there, but it was certainly after 2am.
The clubs here open at 1am and go until 7am- I might need an
ambulance if I go to one of these places.

So
I’ve cracked open the microfibre travel towel today. Yeah. It’s just
a really small fucking towel, but the amount of surface area it can
dry is quite impressive and it definitely feels pretty cool- it also
meant I didn’t have to pay one Euro for a towel- previously towels
have been free or there has been a hand-towel which is changed daily
and I just use that!! Ha ha! Yeah, I fuck with the system- don’t use
the hand towels in hostels because the chances are they’ve been on my
cock. Now I know you’re thinking, “what if someone else is doing
the same thing?” Well, that doesn’t effect me because I always take
my shower right after they’ve cleaned the bathrooms and changed the
towels. I win. I always fucking win. There has been an estimated
saving of around five or six Euros just on towels.

So
today, I just wandered towards the football stadium which is a
suburb, south of the city, I stopped in one of the shitty places
where all the old fellas go and had a sandwich which seemed tailor
made for my condition- anchovies, tuna, Roquefort and tomato. From my
seat outside I could see the owner painstakingly making it in the
window, delicately placing each anchovy on the bread, slicing the
tomato just so and I had the realization that this is HIS hangover
sandwich, it’s how it came to be on the menu- all of the other
sandwiches kind’ve make sense, but this one had a specific
application. After I paid I lost all enthusiasm for any kind of
walking and found a park bench to lay on while listening to a
podcast, one tramp eyeballed me, perhaps suspecting that I was moving
in on his patch. After an hour I decided I needed to go back to the
hostel for a nap. Three hours later, I awake and eat two oranges and
now I’m deciding where to go for dinner…

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