We drove out of Yecla with heavy hearts, but light wallets - we had 'enjoyed' Spain too much and blown a disproportionate amount of cash there. 'It was all worth it, though,' we told ourselves, as we pootled on petrol fumes north up the coast. Alex's mum had cooked us a truly wonderful meal before we left, and, having stuffed ourselves, we weren't worried about needing to eat for another few days.
We were concerned about paying for pricy Spanish campsites. We were heading for Peniscola, in order to consummate the heavenly Coke-can/Male groin photo opportunity, but when we got there, it looked average, and we made a split-second decision to eschew the knob-gag and gun it for Barcelona.
We arrived in Barcelona and found the world's most expensive car park at the bottom of the Ramblas. It was dark (midnight-ish), and all other parking places were full. We got changed in the car and strolled, sophisticated, into Barcelona. We had enough money for drinks in three bars, but found that prices had rocketed since we were there a year and a half ago, and we only just managed two. The barmen had to prize the money from my fingers, and the grinding noise from my teeth echoed loudly.
We spent the rest of the night wandering around, being hassled by hundreds of Indian hawkers, all selling the same cans of beer for a Euro a pop. Just before sunrise, we went to the beach to watch it rise with the other Eurotrash drunks, slept for exactly 15 minutes, and went for breakfast.
We then made another (architectural) pilgrimage to the Sagrada Familia, drank enough caffeinated beverages to stun Amy Winehouse, got back in the car, and drove, exhausted, to France. We swore never to do anything like that again. A week later we did exactly the same thing, but that's a different story...
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