Like I already wrote, I’m definitely coming back to Bilbao because the city has a great vibe and it’s as colourful as a rainbow in the sky. When I arrived, I first headed to the hostel so the Berlin guy could start killing the bedbugs in the washing machine and then in the dryer. The hostel staff took me to the room with 9 beds, and there, as a welcome gift, one lady showed me two dead motherfuckers who’ve been making me itch and burn these last days. Great – out of the shower and straight into hell, I told her and showed her the bites on my arm where those fuckers signed their names.
After showering and sending the Berliner off on a five-hour mission, I went for lunch with the boys and later to the museum. When we were done, we went back to the hostel to pack our backpacks for the next day, because the night ahead was going to be long and full system meltdown.
When I got back, I got a phone call from a friend who lives in Saudi Arabia. He’s a psychology professor, 30 years old, and currently on vacation in Europe. We met one day in Ljubljana and became friends. I call him “Saudi.” He has an excellent sense of humour, gets sarcasm, understands my Berlin jokes, and we’re mentally on the same wavelength. We agreed he’d call me when he arrived in Wroclaw, Poland, because I’d recommended the place to him – a small, beautiful town full of colours, and his taste buds would be happy there too. Lots of food, lots of eye candy.
Since being loud in hostels isn’t cool and I knew our talk would go off the rails, I sat down on the steps outside. There were already a few people out there. He started with a rant about why Wroclaw is written with a double W and not one, and I told him that’s nothing – in Spain, words that start with a V are pronounced with a B and they’re just screwing with my life for no reason.
I completely forgot that people around me might understand English and accidentally overhear our conversation. And those who know me, know my voice travels villages. Of course, the conversation circled back to the »Berlin guy[1]«, and I told Saudi to check out the documentary Hunting Hitler, which he later loved. It’s all about the “what if” – what if Berlin boy didn’t shoot himself and ran off instead? So we joked about that. A girl sitting about a meter away kept turning to me and laughing during the convo. I told Saudi to hold on, I needed to apologise to the girl and explain the jokes. She told me I didn’t need to, she totally understood, and sometimes we really do need him in this shitty world. I laughed out loud and agreed with her. Then came the shock therapy. I asked where she was from. She said Israel. I burst into laughter, so did Saudi on the phone – he’d heard everything. Again, I was blurting out apologies, told her my Hitler had nothing to do with her Hitler. She smiled, said she understood, and hugged me. She told me she was there to surf, staying for a week, then heading to Hungary for Ozora festival. Another reason to skip the Bilbao party with the boys. Her name is Aba – like the Swedish disco group. I mentioned the band, but she had no idea what I was talking about. Turns out she’s only 27. Then I remembered to check how the Berlin guy did with the bug mission. He did good, so I told him a bedtime story – how beautiful the world would be without war, racism, capitalism, shitty people and dumb people. He passed out instantly. I also left Almighty behind at the hostel – he and Berlin don’t belong at a party.
We raged till 3 AM. My backup plan was either to start hiking straight from the party or get up at 5:30 and hit the road before the 2 PM rainstorm, because I really didn’t want another wet walk. Morning came. My hiking buddies ignored the alarm and ditched the plan. So there I was, outside the hostel, hair unbrushed, hungover, ready for a new day while it was still dark and people were just leaving the bars.
This town has a high crime rate, with cops on every corner during the day, so yeah – I was a bit scared walking through it alone. But it is what it is. I kept turning my head over my shoulder, didn’t listen to any music. And as tradition apparently demands, my Coke had vanished again at the hostel. Berlin guy asked if I’d heard of cyanide – said we could go buy some stickers and label my bottle “cyanide” so nobody would touch it. Brilliant idea. Now we just need a shop with stickers and a permanent marker.
I could afford the party last night because I thought today’s walk out of Bilbao would be boring and flat. Of course, there’s more than one path out of the city, and naturally, I picked the steep one. Almighty clearly had other plans for me this morning and sent me on a surprise route for breakfast. I got lost about 20 times – not really something to brag about, especially after acting like the city was mine the night before. I think this was Almighty’s revenge for not bringing him to the party.
While my buddies were still drooling on their pillows, I was already crying and scraping my lungs off the trail. But I did get some amazing views in return. Again, all the sweat and pain paid off. I told Almighty that when I’ve cooled down and my blood stops boiling like lava, we’ll have a talk about this shit. All that hiking sobered me up, and later I felt pretty Olympic, ready to walk even further than planned. But then the rain caught me. I had to stop at kilometre 33 around 1 PM. Hostel didn’t open until 3. Perfect setup for catching a cold and shivering like an old-school alarm clock.
The guy in charge of the hostel was already inside the whole time but didn’t let us in – rules are rules, no matter the weather. When the clock finally struck 3, the guy decided to give us a 30-minute lecture about the hostel rules. He stood under a roof, we stood in the pouring rain. The guy really took his time, like a proper Spaniard.
And when he was done, he gave us a tour. Acted like he was showing off the Queen’s palace. It was a rusty bunkhouse with a shitty kitchen and freezing showers.
If the bedbugs had finally stopped bothering me, now I had a cold.
New day, new problem. But hey – I slept like a queen.[1] Berlin guy – referring to Hitler.
