So this must have been pretty much the most spontaneous random trip I’ve been on so far: “doing anything this weekend?” “No, why?” “Fancy bussing it to Bilbao?” “Okay.” Was pretty much how I decided I was going. Then I discovered that me and George would be getting a bus from Barcelona Sants, fair enough, so the bus left at 10:30pm on Thursday and was due to arrive in Bilbao at 7am on Friday. That is eight and a half hours on a bus. I’m not entirely sure you couldn’t get from London to John O’ Groat’s in that length of time, I’m suddenly a little more sceptical, but hey, it’s an experience to learn from, and hopefully never experience again, I’m definitely going back to Bilbao at some point, but not getting a bus from Barcelona. This is mainly because, first of all, I had to get to Barcelona which is about half the length of England away from Amposta.
So the Thursday first of all: it was a pretty relaxed morning spent, well, in bed, given that I’m on 8am Mondays and Wednesdays, 9am Tuesdays and 3pm Thursdays – this Thursday was actually 4pm, all the better. So I eventually got up and started packing my bag, prioritising alcohol of course, and then the rush hit; my 4 o’clock lesson came and went, then a private lesson with one of the secretaries until what ended up being about quarter past six. Then there was either the 18:40 bus from Amposta which would get me to half a mile away from the train station, three minutes before the only possible train I could catch was due to leave, or the 18:30 taxi I’d decided to prebook because I’m that damn smart, so this gave me 15 minutes to get home, dump school stuff, get bag, get back downstairs, which I managed with a fair bit of time to spare thank Christ. Then that was the rush pretty much over, it was more waiting now, for the taxi, for the train, then getting into Sants at about 9, and getting some much-needed food down my neck, and also having George and Erin set me the challenge of necking all 12 cans I had on me on the bus there…didn’t happen, I know, I’m as surprised as you are. What did happen however: we cracked open one each once we were out of the city and I put down the table tray in front of me and put my beer in the cup holder, the separate cup holder, the cup holder that – if you’re not careful – drops down even further than the tray itself and sends your entire can all over the back of the bus, I was not happy. But I finished what I had left and went to sleep. If you’ve never tried going to sleep on a freezing cold coach, then don’t. Ever. Seriously. The first obstacle was the roundabouts, of which I swear they average one per mile on the road to the pit stop place we were going just outside Zaragoza (I think), I was there laid across the back seat (George was on the floor) under my duvet (my sleeping bag’s in England) and drifting off, drifting off, drifting off, woah, roundabout, I’m awake again! Well this sucks, but I couldn’t really blame the driver for it. What I can blame him for is pulling into the pit stop at about 2:15. By this time I’d drifted off into a sort of half-consciousness. And now any Spanish bus drivers reading this (I’m sure there’s shedloads of you), take note:
Acceptable: being nudged slightly awake by pulling into the pit stop, reversing, parking, and the slightly jerky movements that come with all this.
Not acceptable: “ATENCIÓN PASAJEROS, LES COMUNICAMOS QUE HEMOS LLEGADO AL PUNTO DE DESCANSO DONDE PUEDE SALIR PARA COMER Y BEBER, Y REANUDAMOS EL VIAJE A LAS TRES.” Yeah thanks for that mate, not like just about everyone on the bus was asleep and could give any less of one or anything. Tit.
Surprisingly though after this I got a surprising amount of actual sleep which I was quite impressed at, until about 5:50 when he announced that we were nearing Vitoria, now pretty much yelling down the intercom when you’re arriving at peoples’ destination is acceptable, plus I figured at that point it was pointless trying to get any more sleep, and I’m pretty sure George was out cold since before the pit stop, jammy twat, I nudged him awake though after the driver announced we were nearing Bilbao, and then we got off to then go and experience the maze that is Bilbao’s metro. And by maze I mean, well, a Y-shape, it’s one line that splits into two, if you get lost on this your body should be donated to scientific research when you die as you may just be the missing link. And one of the first things that struck me is that it turns out the word eta in Basque means and. Although to be fair the whole Basque language strikes me as quite strange. So we navigated the metro and met Laura at the nice humanly-possible-to-be-awake time of 7:30, went back to her flat and had breakfast before she went to work, and then we slept. On actual mattresses, that didn’t move, this was absolute heaven.
After getting back up at, I dunno, 12, we went round the centre of Bilbao, mainly seeking out the stadium, as you do, oh, and we got absolutely PISSED on!! Laura told us that Basque weather is basically English weather only 15 degrees warmer. Bollocks! It was not 15 degrees warmer! The rain, however, was about right, so we sought shelter in some café we found that turned out surprisingly cheap, which may have been to do with being undercharged 10€ on an 11€ bill, not that I’m complaining. What I will complain about is how the rain stopped while we were inside the café and started again when we came out, this seemed to become a weekend theme. But yeah we went back to Laura’s flat and then to her work’s anniversary do. All I will say about this evening is Gavin + free unlimited beer + free unlimited kalimotxo (this stuff is a bitch) = leaving it to your imagination, this is mainly because I (thankfully) can’t remember most of it, and we all know the rule: if you don’t remember it, it never happened. It didn’t. Shut up, no it didn’t.
Onto a very hungover Saturday spent being told about all these things that, you know, I didn’t really actually do, but there you go, and arsing around the flat, venturing out for the tour of the San Mamés museum, and drinking hair of the dog as is tradition, we watched The Full Monty as well for some reason, first time I’ve ever seen it, don’t really get it, but on the plus side it’s set in Yorkshire therefore it’s a good film. Afterwards we played Godknowshowmany drinking games before heading out to an Irish pub for a bit of a quieter one, probably a good idea given our bus was leaving for Barcelona at half 10 the next morning.
Now onto the next morning, where it rained. Again. Only this time it decided to be a real twat and save a special surprise for us: hailstones. It’s like it was expecting us to be too hungover to catch the bus – I had no hangover whatsoever, winning – and decided to give us a special send-off because it woke up too late to start when we’d woken up. We went into the shop beforehand and bought crisps and drinks and stuff, only to then have people actually enforcing the ‘food has to go into hold’ rule on the bus, not even a bottle of water! Goddamit! I mean I may not have been hungover but that doesn’t stop me being about as tired as the first day I arrived in Amposta. But we got off at the pit stop given that it was at a more reasonable time, about 2pm, and stuffed ourselves, while watching a bit of the Australian Open Final, which was actually the first thing I’d heard about the Australian Open. But then after getting back on the bus a bit of luck came my way, in that I was expecting to get to Barcelona Sants at 6, miss the train out and end up arsing around until half 9 for the bus that arrived in Amposta at 23:40, and instead got to Sants and about 5:55, giving me time to get the train and cut about three hours off my journey (yet another reason Catalunya > the rest of Spain ;) )
So I got in at about the time the bus I thought I’d be getting left Barcelona, and went straight to bed and slept/passed out/died/a combination of all 3 to wake up fresh and early at 6am on Monday, go to work, go check my balance – which before this weekend had been €€€€€€ – and get depressed, feel like crying, and accept the fact I’m not eating this week. Yay!
