Night train number three took us to Barcelona (1). In our compartment we met Mr. Cologne, who didn't find showers necessary. I forgot to switch the extra button on my alarm clock, so we were lucky that Mr. C woke us up at our stop, Port Bou, Spain. Having to transfer trains in the early morning pretty much sucks, especially if you have to race off the train and then sit in the station for an hour before the restrooms are open. We were too groggy to comprehend that "Barna" was the logical abbreviation for Barcelona, so we were especially confused. Eventually our express, one-hour train from Port Bou to Barna arrived, and only took three hours to get us there.

Arriving in the city without planned lodgings, we were approached by a couple of hostel ringers at the train station. Deciding to trust the one who promised free Internet access, we headed to the Gothic Point Youth Hostel. Contrary to its name, it was spacious and modern, and indeed, had free net access (if you could wait for the sorority boys to finish first). Our dormish room felt more like a tree fort, with big, curtained, double-decker chambers and lots of metal beams from which to hang wet laundry.

Too lethargic to really enjoy our first day in Barcelona, we sat on the pier for a long time, and then went to the Port Vell mall (which had a mirrored ceiling (2) - can you see Drea and me to the left of the green flag?) to watch the movie Shreck. However, in hispanohablante countries, it's pronounced "Ezreck;" at least that's how the characters in the movie said it. Mike Myers and Eddie Murphy's voices were dubbed over in Spanish, so much of the original humor was lost. But Drea and I prided ourselves on how well we still understood what was going on. Okay, enough about the movie.

Day two, we took a bike tour around the city. Unlike the one in Paris, this tour hadn't been around for very long, so the route wasn't as well planned, and we huffed it a bit through traffic-ridden streets. Our guide told us that the Spanish Mullet was currently haute couture, with short, often dyed hair on top and long, wavy locks down the back. He told us to watch out for people with mullets, as they were supposedly ubiquitous. We didn't see any in three hours. I think he was smoking it.

On the tour we did get to see the über-famous Sagrada Familia church (3), designed by Gaudi with all of the requisite gaudiness. We also saw a more conventional Gaudi fountain (4), a gate made of lizards(5), and my favorite gargoyle, Herman (6).

Later, we wandered through the Gothic Quarter (7), and basked on the beach. I ended up with an allergic reaction to Drea's sunscreen, and was happy to find the word for "rash" in my dictionary. Got to practice my communication skills at a 24-hour pharmacy, and found that "hydrocortisone," when pronounced with the proper accent, gets the point across.

That evening, we dined at Caputxes in the Barri Gotic (8), and had fabulous gazpacho and goat-cheese salads. One of the great things about travelling with another vegetarian is that we can both be picky about restaurants, and still share plates.

A bit too tipsy from the house wine to just go back to the hostel, Drea and I wandered down Las Ramblas. Las Ramblas is the main drag toward the beach, with lots of street vendors, performers (here's Chaplin (9) ), and restaurants. Our tour guide had told us about one particular street performer who dressed like a pharaoh. He was so bad at it that he had to wear a mask so you couldn't see his face move, and the bike guide used to lead his tour in circles around the poor performer, shouting unpleasantries. The performer left the city, and had reportedly been seen in Italy and France. Drea and I think we saw him at Versailles later.

At this point it would be appropriate to talk about the Catalan language, which is spoken in Northern Spain. Imagine normal Spanish, but with random x's, v's, and z's swapped in for more conventional letters like c. Drea said it was like the country raised its hand and volunteered for all of the reject letters.

Day three was museum and beach day. (Every day in Barcelona has to be at least partially beach day.) We started with the fabulous Picasso museum. I hadn't realized that his early work was much more photorealistic, and quite stunning. Later, we checked out the museum of natural history, after being told that a large portion of original city ruins were contained underground. In short, the exhibit sucked.

That evening, we had dinner at a sandwich shop near the park, and did fairly well communicating with our waiter in Spanish. Later, he asked us if everything was "all roite," and we about died from the cute British accent.

Remember our crime spree? Well, I stole a spoon (10) from a bar that didn't know what Kahlua was.

Next: Valencia and the mystery meat . . .