A Travellerspoint blog

Homecoming! Ish....

Or rather how I am putting off coming home... just for a wee bit longer.

rain 6 °C
View I have been to here on on PennyJelly's travel map.

Hello!
For all of you slaving away sewing and decorating my welcome home banner (the one I shall run through when I reach Tullamarine) - I have good news!:
You shall have a little bit longer to get the blanket stitching edging even more perfect - as I have decided to delay my return trip once again...

Basically, this is a test to see who has been reading my blog (or *not* as the case may be... but I thought I'd leave you hanging after my Porto coronary, just to keep the mystery going...)... and for those of you who have been missing me in this digital format, I shall be reappearing here soon with MORE fun and adventures, near misses and mere nisses. Pending discovering what of a Nisses is.
Hm.

Anyhoo, apologies for not getting this news of me extending my trip out sooner than now, it's just that I have been so darned busy. And a little bit tired. And I have only just decided this wish for more time to actually become a reality.

Was supposed to be back on the 25th of October, but am now boycotting the race that stops a nation to attend a massive bonfire in England (if only I could remember remember what it is all about... but I think it's on the 5th of November).

SO - I shall be bouncing back to life and back to these pages with news of my recent past (more of Spain, Bruges, Amsterdam and London) as well as upcoming travels to Scotland and perhaps even Ireland. You lucky things, you.
But the trick is, to experience such things so I can write about them, and you clever people get to read them, I must extend my stay away - just a tad longer.

  • But* - keep those beers on ice, as the icy conditions here in the UK shall surely drive me home - and much like the driving snow that shall be lining the streets here within weeks, it will all be all white.

That's it for me for now.

Suffice to say, I miss you all - but fear the reality that is awaiting my return (lack of job, house, money) - so this broad is staying abroad for just a little longer.

I shall update this blog retrospectively AND update my new arrival day and time (keep working on that stitching) - when in fact I know when it is... the decision eludes me still.
That's the Penny Jelly you all know and love... just as indecisive as ever.
Or am I?

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M.I.A. - PJ x

Posted by PennyJelly 23:39 Archived in United Kingdom Tagged on from jelly update london... Comments (4)

Oporto; I hear it's nice!!

But then again, I wouldn't really know.

semi-overcast 21 °C

Oporto; I hear it's really nice!
But I wouldn't really know.

Well; I arrived after a relatively late start from Lisbon and several hours on the bus.  A banana sustained me all day. I was hungry, tired and soon to be lost.

In pulling into the bus station later than I thought, at a place different to the one I had mapped out directions from, the first port of call was to find my bearings. I've been pretty good at doing this before I arrive at my destination, and although I sometimes head in the wrong direction for a short amount of time, I get there in the end.
This time was different.
A partially saved google map and a compass wasn't going to get me out of this fine mess. But not to worry. Find the hostel, it's near the river, it can't be that difficult, right?! However, Oporto is situated pretty much all the way ALONG a big river.

So, I headed in one direction, thought better of it and veered towards the opposite direction. Compelled to head away from the river that I could see. Sensible?! As it turns out, yes.

I needed an information point to get a map, but instead headed to a hotel, as my Portuguese is non existent, but large and fancy dwellings usually have helpful staff. Despite the fact that my scruffy look is in stark contrast to Prada wearing, cashed up middle aged set. But, I'm pleased to say, this place was no exception to my helpful waistcoated hotel staff point of view.
In asking for a map and directions to the hostel's street, both concierges (conciergoos?!) looked at one another in puzzlement but reached for the street directory. Righto, off to a good start.
However, they found the general area on the general map, and mapped out general walking directions for me. Very helpful. Soon I'd be rested and able to go out for a nice meal in the lovely Porto that I'd heard so many good things about, and enjoy my last night in Portugal.
Or would I?!

After I found the general area, I had yet to find the elusive Steps House Hostel.
Unfortunately, the map didn't have street names, and the street name that I was looking for was nowhere to be found. Literally. Nowhere. I did have a saved sattelite image from my planned directions so I tried to zoom in, but still, no street names were apparent. All I could do was look for small square building next to small winding streets with trees. Yup, you guessed it. I was surrounded by such places. All looking the same, but taking me no closer to my final destination. Luckily, I found a landmark that looked a little different to the rest, so I forged ahead and *finally* found the steps, with faded paint signs saying St p sho se ^ which I assumed meant go up the steps to Steps House hostel. And then I realized exactly why it was named such a place. Eesh. So many step. so much altitude. Such great giant leaps from step to step. I was hot, hungry but 30 or 40 steps closer to my place of rest.
That's when I was greeted at the door by Patrick. A nice guy, very friendly - with hair and fashion like something out of the 1980s Beat It video clip. Ah, kids of today. Anyway, Patrick shook my hand and said he had news for me!
Apparently, due to logistical nightmare and the disappearance of logic, they had overbooked the hostel, so, to find a solution I was to be taxied off to their sister hostel, up town. Same price, bigger place, no problem. So, sweaty, hungry and tired, with the sun soon to set, who was I to kick up a fuss. As long as I had a place to sleep and time to see the city, I was happy. Well, I received one of those things. And it was Maslow's hierarchy of needs that stepped up.
I waited for a taxi for about an hour. Time enough for more people to check in (lucky buggers with their fulfilled joint booking), a German couple to make and eat dinner in front of me (man, food has never smelled so good) and a fellow Australian living in London to hit me up for Short Story Publishing advice (good luck, darlin' - you and me, both. You're readin it!).
But, after I learned that the taxi was on it's way, after it had experienced a tyre breakdown, I could envisage my bed and dinner in the very short distance.
As it happens, the taxi was another half hour, and the guy that turned up was like a not so charming, Roberto Benigni on massive amounts of speed, but slightly more crazy. He was very animated and loud to say the very least. I said goodbye to Philip from the hostel, after he assured me I'd be fine with the non English speaking cartoon character as José (I learned his name after he said it repeatedly accompanied with the drumming of his taxi ID and banging his chest to point out the obvious) disappeared down the steps with my heavy backpack that didn't seem to slow him down or slow him up.
The drive, as I shall loosely call it, was fast, furious, dangerous, hair raising and comical. I laughed nervously the entire way to the new hostel. This guy was beyond crazy town. He was the mayor and all if it's inbred residents!
We went past all the traffic by cleverly mounting the curb and driving on the tram rails (ironically as José was clearly off the rails), perhaps going the wrong way, narrowly missing pedestrians, lampposts and railings.
He was pointing and laughing the entire time, making noises like he was a police car.
We hurtled around corners, dove into slightly empty spaces, only just yielded for buses and overtook on the inside lanes. He beeped at cars clearly in the right as we continued to swerve in every wrong way.
I had no idea where I was going as my life flashed before my eyes.
Finally, we screetched to a halt outside a building I could only assume was the sister hostel. He leapt out of the car, popped the boot, retrieved my bag and plonked it in front of the door and rang the doorbell still ranting and raving he entire time. At leas he was having fun. But I had to politely refuse three offers of marriage per the duration of the trip. Lucky me! This crazy mime was one I did not nod and 'si' at.
As the new hostel guy opened the door, listened to the final rant from José and then invited me inside saying that taxi driver was crazy (nice to have it confirmed), I was struggling to keep the smiles up as I felt I was at the end of my rope. Not angry, just tired and disappointed that the sun was going down on the town and my opportunities for seeing this city were slipping away with the dusk.
Still, I had one bastion left against the waste of a day: he local cuisine. I was hoping for a fish dish, bacaluanor otherwise. Instead I was told about something else entirely.

The Francesinha - is the most famous popular native snack food in Porto. And apparently I had to try it. Sure, one night in Porto, may as well do something local, I just didn't know what it was, or what I was in for. So, starving and disoriented, i tracked one down in a nearby cafe. Any port in a storm.
So, the delicacy. It is a kind of 'sandwich' with several meats (mine included frankfurters; sliced, salami, ham, chicken and another 2 slightly unrecognisable meats) slathered with melted cheese and a fried egg, all sitting in a special sauce made with beer and other secret ingredients, and then all of thus meaty white bread goodness is covered in a pile of chips. This meal would have made even Elvis proud. And I knew that if I didn't have a heart attack then and there it would make an unbelievable travel tale. I expected this type of fare in Scotland, perhaps with the addition of batter and being deep fried, but in a river based town and a country where I have eaten the freshest, tastiest fish - I was caught a little off guard. Especially as I had no idea what this was when I ordered it. Luckily, I can live (hopefully) and  tell the tale. I feel my life still hangs in the balance.

So, in order to save the save the day, I walked off a stroke, and went back to the hostel in order to have an early night so I might be able to see at least some of the town in daylight. So a shower was in order.

I gathered my things including my €1 rented towel to the one bathroom with two so called showers and one toilet. This is when I realized that the showers were only that, a shower with no place to change. No problem, I'll cover my modesty with my rented red towel.
Surprise, that's when I unfold the towel and notice it is, dum dom dah!: a hand towel. Nice. Laughable and slightly annoying, but it all makes sense in this day.

So I brave the shower, which only works from the shower head, surprisingly and not from the hand held nozzle as is usual in hostels, so I manage to drench my clothes. But only a little bit. And then I proceed to take a shower in what increasingly becomes my own filth as the drain clogs up. Ah, the perfect end to the perfect day.
Clogged drains and clogged arteries.

I put myself to bed, awake the next day, have time to QUICKLY look about the town, where I have really been plonked in the middle of nowhere, then eat breakfast, walk to the bus 'station' -the side of an unsigned road, but have a helpful bus man assist me with printing my ticket from the 1970's wood panelled office - and proceed to bide my time until leaving. As my name is slightly weird, he insisted on calling me Jelly.
"Please, Jelly, have a seat, take off your bag, Jelly. No problem, Jelly, the bus comes soon".
It was actually rather comforting.

So, Porto, you treated me unfavourably, but I forgive you.

Until next time we meet...

Stay healthy.

clutch 1

clutch 1


photo 2

photo 2


photo 3

photo 3

Killer photos were included, but through the magic of this time, they have been omitted for now. Typical.

Just wait for it, like a hungry tired girl waiting for a taxi.

Sent from my iPhone

Posted by PennyJelly 17:14 Archived in Portugal Tagged food porto sad hungry Comments (0)

I never went Hungry in Hungary

Or, food stories and tales from Budapest. A while ago...This was also supposed to have photos, but I have been thwarted

semi-overcast 24 °C
View I have been to here on on PennyJelly's travel map.

I never went Hungry in Hungary.

Or, food stories and tales from Budapest.

So, Budapest! What a place! More history and more churchy and castley goodness than you can poke a stick at! I didn't however poke a stick, but I did poke my nose into a few places. I walked up to the castle, also known as the Fisherman's Bastion, but I just wrote for a bit and soaked up the sights.
It was only when I left the place where I'd been sitting for the past two hours that I really noticed that I'd been sitting in Disneyland's Fantasyland castle (which I believe I missed both times in going to the Californian and ORIGINAL Disneyland) which was surprising, delightful and somewhat alarming.
But Budapest really is a tale of two cities. Firstly there's Buda and then there's Pest. One guess as to which side of the city I was staying in. That's right: Pest!!

And I was staying at a place called the Green Bridge Hostel, so called as it was near the Green Bridge! And yes, the bridge is green. I am an expert on this as I saw it twice, once on the way over, and once on the way back after arriving... With a 17kg pack on my back and very little spring in my step on this very warm day, let's just say the temperature of human blood - which I could see in the veins pulsating in my neck and temples viewed in the mirror after I'd arrived at the hostel after crossing to Buda, over the river, and then back to Pest once I'd realized I'd gone the wrong way.
Clearly the instructions to look for 'the green vegetated area with the concrete path through the middle' were now redundant as the green I was supposed to look for was now a pile of rubble roped off due to major construction... Silly me, I missed it. So saw the bridge twice.
It wasn't so good the second time, the first time was a bit of drudgery, too. And I felt stupid. And hot. Let's face it. No one likes to look the fool, except for maybe those people who wear those silly hats. But - enough clowning around, groan, get back to the travel blog.
For this overdue instalment, I think I shall focus on food - it's sometimes the one thing that breaks up the day of amazing sights and wandering through my mind.

  • Tourist places will always have a 'menu touristica' or similar. Foreign food presented with the flair of souvenir experiences able to be neatly ticked off. Young guys and gals hand out flyers to entice you into the management's lair of cheap food and supposedly cheap prices, but once you see the expansive menu, you'll more than likely buy something more expensive.

I, however, was never given a flyer or asked to eat at any restaurant. Do I look that fat, or unwashed or poor that I am not to be enticed? Will I really bring the atmosphere of the place down by that much?! Or is it that I am alone, solo, unattached, single and thus not worthy of their banter and chit chat. If you cut me, do I not bleed?! Or is it that I won't bleed the coveted money that the larger groups probably will;  egging each other on to try yet another cheap litre of beer?! Fair enough in one way, but I drank my litres of beer elsewhere! I showed them!! Ha!

  • I had a series of strange attempts to buy salad dressing at the supermarket. The security guard and deli staff didn't speak English, so I mimed adding water to the dehydrated packet of creamy yoghurt mixture, but he thought I wanted to mix the powder into my water and then drink it!! Hilarity ensued as he kept directing me to the drinks section, and I kept miming trying to add water, then add that to the salad and eat it. It took the intervention of a German guy to jump in and assist. He also told me Oktoberfest is the place to be. Germans: always full of good tips!
  • In trying to be a little bit healthy, I ordered a Chicken Caesar salad or what recently ceased to be anything resembling a Caesar salad. It contained iceberg lettuce, creamy mayonnaise, slices of toast and tomato and the smallest amount of chicken you can ever imagine! Now imagine half the size of that. It wasn't a Caesar and it wasn't really a salad! So, one could say (but probably wouldn't ever) they were certainly chicken in making me happy!
  • Goulash: surely Budapest is the place to eat this, so I braved the market place and got a tin bucket of goulash. Deliciousness in a pail. Then, another time, I had a meal that paled in comparison: goulash soup, cheap and I thought might be cheerful on my hips and hip pocket. Unfortunately it was a thin watery soup that wouldn't sustain me as I had become used to the bigger portions, so then I succumbed to a hamburger at Hungry Jack's! Which wasn't a cheap meal at all! Fast food isn't cheap in Europe. I think this is actually a good thing. Also Burger King (Hungary Jack's) has deep fried cheese with cream cheese filling. Mmm. I didn't have any - shame.
  • I had terrible paprikosch. There wasn't enough paprika in it (Billy Crystal has taught me well; the highly acclaimed documentary When Harry Met Sally has gems on all things in life as well as real life dating), it was too small and fatty, contained bits of completely unrecognisable parts of the chicken, was super pricey, and as a garnish is what they call a side dish, which you have to order otherwise you just get orange tinned warmed slop, I had rice with mushrooms - and even that left much room for disappointment.
  • So, to spite the paprikosch (and my heart), back at the market I had fried bread WITH sour cream and cheese on another occasion!! A delicious local (fat) fare!!

IMG 0277 (from email)

IMG 0277 (from email)

  • Hungary has Big beers. And they are cheap! A litre of beer for 550 ft (Forints not feet).
  • Countless times of being told not to sit on the steps to eat or sit or eat and sit, to rest, to sit... Get up off the steps!!
  • Being told I can't sit at a bench near another food provider to eat my meal, even though it's all one big long eating and drinking area at the market.
  • I have a question for you: What's a cock without balls?! Well, I found out: it's dinner! But not for me! I caught the tail end of an outdoor festival event and saw people line up for a dish of rooster testicles, which I narrowly, but successfully avoided. I really didn't have the balls to try it!

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  • Returning to the market and enjoying a stuffed paprika with another ball of pork and rice in a delicious sauce! Was  the meat cooked properly?! Who can say?!
  • Having a Martini Bianco and being charged 850 ft and when I asked for the bill, being told the service charge is not included. I'm no genius, but it doesn't take a service wizard to open the screw top of a bottle called Martini Bianco (like Cinzano), add some ice and a slice of lemon and pour. I've got a tip for ya!
  • Buying ice cream and noticing as I was reaching for my purse that the 2 scoop charge does not included the cup or cone price. What do they want

me to do?! Carry it out of there in my hands?! Eat it straight from the tub? Don't tempt me people!

  • Indulging in a vanilla chocolate swirl soft serve, and that was just a small cone! It was almost as big as a building!!

IMG 0279 (from email)

IMG 0279 (from email)

Obviously, there were other highlights to Budapest, of course! Going to the gardens, the squares, Heroes Square included, seeing Parliament at a time in Australia when we didn't actually have our own parliament, going to the citadel, gazing at the river; at night, during the day - it really is rather beautiful. Going to the Labyrinths; an underground maze where you carry your own oil lamp - showing old artifacts and chambers - which pulls a rather nice ironic twist on you at the end, going to the Baths and bathing with the old guys playing chess nearby, avoiding couples smooching the kiss of life in the 37 degree water, almost passing out in the sauna (is it really that good for you?!) and then plunging into the freezing cold plunge pool (that surely can't be good for you! - can't that type of thing stop your heart? Especially after a lunch of local food smothered in delicious cholesterol?!), strolling through the streets to find a recommended restaurant that serves hummus and felafels. Delicious!!! Nutritious!!! Worth the 5km walk!!, Forints - the local currency sounding like the same currency from Xena's time (I've seen it in that other well known documentary), or the days of yor with Robin Hood; clogged and overflowing drains in the dodgy but sweet hostel (how can I be down on a place that provides over 300 DVDs and being able to introduce Benjamin, the French guy, to Family Guy, and explain, 'yes it is an American program, and it is broadcast in America' as his jaw continued to drop open in disbelief) - just to name but a few!

And to top it all off, in trying to leave Budapest for Vienna and congratulating myself on navigating time, the subway and depleting my soon to be useless currency before I leave, I manage to go 4 stops the wrong way, and have to double back! All in no time with a 'one use' train ticket - which I've already used and am thus clean out of cash!!  So 8 stops later, and considering asking directions from a book store holder at the station, but reconsidering when I realize the only thing she is peddling are Science Fiction books, all from
one writer: L. Ron Hubbard (you may remember him from such great plots as us all having a Thetan trapped inside us, giving Tom Cruise absolute crazy power to play the acting role of his life and that wonderful religion Scientology), I make my way back to the CORRECT station, avoid the nine ticket inspectors and arrive at the correct bus plaza (ah, now THIS one looks familiar) and I board the bus panting but glad it wasn't me who was not allowed to get on board -  I've never seen anyone kicked off a bus before just because their driver's licence wasn't considered to be a legal form of ID! She had to have a passport or nothing, apparently, even though the ticket collector was asking for ID... To me a driver's licence IS the ID card... Oh well. I've gotta ticket to ride (it was like going to the door of a nightclub and being turned away as it is a 'private party', but this time, I was ON the guest list), and ride I did, all the way to Vienna.

I apologise for the poor writing in this blogisode. I don't think I was getting enough oxygen to my brain, there seemed to be a block of cheese weighing down my red blood cells.

Sent from my iPhone - PJ

--
Penny Jelly

Posted by PennyJelly 17:07 Archived in Hungary Tagged food Comments (0)

Cats and Cacti

A walk in the park...

sunny 30 °C

I went to the botanical gardens today, a really nice place to just chill out.
For a euro you get to wander this organised botanical bliss walled off from the heat of the afternoon, and you can read about the plants if you wish (or can understand Spanish), as ages ago some guy spent ages categorising them - I think he was a botanist, not just a bored guy in search of a hobby.
They also have cats there! My lucky day! The garden society look after them and I think people can adopt them, too. All sorts; some that run to you, some that run away from you and others that are nonchalant. Cats! You're familiar with them, right?!

My favourite one was a little black cat with only a stub for a tail. He was super friendly, he'd rub up against my shorts and now I have enough fur on there to make my own cat. I wanted to call him stumpy, but I settled on Little Bear as he was slightly round in the belly with little legs and a small head... and the way he walked looked like the bear cub I saw on a doco; about bears.

I was having a great time as I meandered and sat and wandered about, patting cats encouraging others to no avail (another one I called Scaredy Cat as he meowed and followed me constantly and wanted to be patted, but kept a one foot distance at all times). Then I wondered what time this place shut, and how they get everyone out. Is there a bell or does someone come around? I checked the back of my entrance ticket and as I can't read Spanish, just looked for numbers. There was a 6 and a 10 on there - long opening hours! Great! They usually use 24 hour time, but I'm sure they're open late, regardless, I mean, they have path lights in there.

And then night crept in, but the lights didn´t go on. More cats came out... And I thought I should meander through the cactus garden and back to the front gate.

The cactus garden reminded me of when I was a little girl and playing hide and seek with Brian from across the road. His nickname was mullet. And he was a bit odd. I think I probably just wanted to hide, but sure, let's turn that into a game. Only, this time I managed to give myself away in a spectacular fashion when hiding in the next door neighbour's front garden (incidentally, they were the Gardeners, as in Mister and Missus, talk about your funny names!). I basically stood around when Brian wasn't in sight and when I heard him coming around the corner, I proceeded to play my part and attempt to hide. Nothing fancy, just a crouching position behind a small fence. However, I did not count on the fact that there would be a cactus plant (the sort with Mickey Mouse ear leaves, not the straight up and down plant - that sort belongs in Carry On films) breaking my fall!

YOWZERS!!

I yelped as a thousand needles broke my skin and I leapt up crying and wanting to hold my butt (as holding a sore thing always makes it better) but couldn't due to the needle points of death throbbing in my... agony. To which Brian exclaimed "Found you! I win. You're it."
I didn't have time to explain the intricacies of the game and point out the fact that he didn't actually win, this didn't make him clever and that regardless, he's an idiot - as I had to rush inside and get Mum to help me out of this embarassing prickle with careful attention to my young bottom with some tweezers... and probably a chuckle amidst soothing and comforting words and dabs of betadine or similar.

Somewhere out there in Ringwood East is a bald cactus leaf... But not here in Valencia. Here they mock me with their full and poised spines.

But I digress.

So I quaked in my Birkenstocks as I hurried through the garden of painful memories and headed towards the gate. I thought it odd that noone else was around, but at least I now know how they signal that the gated gardens are nigh on closing. They don't! Luckily there was a security guard to let me out. Otherwise I would have been trapped in there all night - with hungry cats and vengeful cacti that seem to take human form in the dusky night.

CATS!!!

Jelly xx

Posted by PennyJelly 01:18 Archived in Spain Comments (7)

Valencia Paella

or rather - Valencia Orange Coloured Rice.

sunny 30 °C

Upon arriving in Valencia I read up on the local traditions, foods and culture.
I found out that paella (that deeyishious rice dish) and bocadillos (baguettes with a tapa in it - or, sandwich) were first dreamed up in Valencia, so today I thought I'd splash out and have the big meal for lunch, like the locals... at 3:30pm.

Most places were shut and the streets were pretty bare. Grim reminders from last night's clubbing adventures lined the streets - but I was looking for something to re-line my stomach. A good night was had, and although not a lot of money was spent, I seemed to be paying for it again today. I blame the Belgian surgeons, Steve and Sven. But more of that later.

I went into a restaurant and asked if they were still serving food, and then asked if it was possible to just have paella for one. Spain is the place where I am constantly reminded I am by myself. Tapas, paella and a family block of chocolate are all meant to be shared. I am also passed over by the flower sellers that take to the streets to guilt diners into buying a rose for their loved one, as well as being given two menus whenever I sit down, and then the waiter looks about and quizzes "Uno?" or Solo?" as if it is a crime to dine alone. But, more for me... I won´t be alone for much longer, though. Soon it will be me and the spare tyre.

Now, I have heard that it takes 40 minutes for a good and traditional paella to cook and will then be presented at the table in the pan it was cooked in (I know this, I've had good paella in Melbourne, but I'm in Valencia, I want to try traditional fare), and although I knew that most of the budget inclined establishments would probably do a condensed version of this, I was willing to be part of a cut corner operation for a cheap and local experience. But in my mind, hearing a microwave go off after 3 minutes and then seeing a white plate of dumped yellowy orange coloured rice and 2 yellow snowpeas (I assumed they were fresh, once) accompanied with the dryest chicken pieces you've ever laid eyes on, does not a paella make. I prefer my chicken pieces without internal organs, please. I was going to say that they were unrecognisable, but the fact that I detatched a kidney from one piece and the other one is usually found inside the chicken and used for making stock seemed to give the game away. If it wasn't for my dull hangover, I would have left it and gone elsewhere, but I needed something stodgy and tasteless to weigh my head down so it wouldn't float away. And who needs flavour anyway when you have coloured rice?! Things like chorizo and prawns and chicken fillet and spices and that toasty flavour from the bottom of the pan would have just got in the way! They actually did me a favour, adding an 'L' to that would have cost extra, I'm sure.

So, do I go in search of another Valencian dish, or do I just stick to the bocodillos? It's more difficult (but not impossible) to stuff up one of thoses. Not that I'm complaining, I am having a great time in Spain! You should read what I have to say about Barcelon! (No, really - you should read it when I finish writing it...) Spain is amazing, wonderful, beautiful, laid back and charming... it's just that the rice today was a little lacklustre. At least it was almost the colour of a Valencia orange. That´s typical, I guess.

Pen x

Posted by PennyJelly 01:01 Archived in Spain Comments (0)

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