It was my first day of a month in Spain. There I was, sitting at the Carmel Bunkers in Barcelona: a viewing point where the…
Buenaventura Bravo’s main job during the Spanish Civil War was getting his goats out of the village and into the mountains. This was no top-secret…
I see them on my way to the Prado Museum. Tents — an assembly of bright red tents, maybe 20 or so, pitched in the…
Spain’s relaxed nature towards its lifestyle, including alcohol, is terrifying to the sober daughter of an alcoholic. To have a childhood coloured by the not-so-parental…
My previous portero died unexpectedly. One day he was there – a fat and jovial man, bald, glasses, head pushed a little forward giving way…
There is nothing noble, nor brave, about running with the bulls. Nothing of the sour smell of drunkenness and strewn-out drunkards in the early Pamplonan morning,…
Some look back on their wedding and get warm glowing fuzzies in their heart and tear up at the tune of their first dance song….
His name was Jack and he was from Sydney: two facts that I only actually found out after a brief conversation with him the following…
It was my last afternoon in Barcelona, and I was having an absolute mare. Photographic evidence had just surfaced of me making out with a…
I used to always pride myself on being possibly the only 20-something in the western world who hadn’t done cocaine. Originally, this was primarily due…
