Get away.

The service was so bad in a bar last night, that in the end we did a runner without paying. Here is the guilty party in the back of a runaway cab.

Ole.

From the sublime to the ridiculous in just 3 Margaritas. 

Not a fan.

Driving from Valencia to Barcelona yesterday - we stopped at an Autogrill for a bit of baguette and Serrano ham and got caught up with the Spanish Women's Instituto. There must have been a hundred of them and en masse they were terrifying. Thankfully we arrived just before, so we were seated and already arguing the cutting of the baguette when they swarmed in like a plague of locusts. By the time they left, not a slice of Serrano or plate of huevos was left unturned. Nigel who was fascinated that there were so many women all of the same height and with the same hairdo went to get a couple of sneaky shots of them but this was a red rag to a bull. "NO FOTOGRAFIA" he was told. One of them had her fan at the ready, to give him a clip around the ear but given they were all under 5 foot, she realised, she'd never reach him.

The spirit of Paella.

Unfinished food that will haunt Nigel for weeks. 

Examined in Earnest.

La Pepica - Valencia. This was Earnest Hemingway's favourite place when he fancied a plate of paella. Apparently he once examined F Scott Fitzgerald's 'gentleman parts' in the bathroom here and informed him "it was of normal size".

Ruff.

I fuckin' hate living in Spain - it's too fuckin' hot. 

Mirror mirror on the wall.

At the Villa Magna - the tele looks exactly like a mirror, the only telltale sign that it's in any way electronical is that there's a teeny tiny red light on one corner. They've obviously been to the Spanish version of Harvey Norman (Javier Normona) and paid a naffing fortune for it. Nigel has been v taken with it from the minute he realised what it was and has attempted many options of photograph to show it off to his friends in its best light. However this morning when packing, he flung open his steel case ready to cram a handful of tees in, but in his haste, the top lid snapped back and in an instant the whole corner of the tele was gone and there were bits of mirror everywhere. That's 7 years bad luck, a quick getaway from the Villa Magna and a heated discussion about whether the bits of mirror were thrown in the bin, flushed down the loo or slowly eaten. I voted for the latter but he wasn't up for it so we kicked them under the bed and made a quick get away in a rented Nissan.

Madgerid.

We are staying at the Villa Magna where Madonna stays when she's doing a bit of shopping at the home of Zara. I am seriously convinced that we are in the actual room she stayed in. For a start there are blonde hairs on the pillow, 'Vogue' is on the coffee table and there's a picture of Madonna and (her) child on the wall. They probably never let house keeping in this room - preserving it just as she left it.

Off the bone.

Hamson and Delilah.

Zara Hombre.

I've told him a thousand times - anything you buy on holiday never looks good when you get it home.

Don Cornichon

We've seen these guys twice now busking in the Plaza de Mayor. They come out at about 9pm - probably after they've had their Seranno ham and watched the Spanish equivalent of Eastenders. He plays the accordion and she the tambourine - they are both equally dentally challenged and either because of or despite it, they sing no actual words though they both do accompany their music with singing but they use the words my mum uses while she's making a batch of scones and listening to Terry Wogan on the radio - ie da da da da da dee dee dee dee deeeee. They do a lovely rendition of the theme to the Godfather - ees ok we see what they're spaghettin at.

The devils and Prada.

In honour of the fact that Zara is Spanish I have honestly spent or wasted (depending on your point of view) a large part of the day in their flagship store on Calla Serano. 6 floors of 'merch' - 5 of them for women. It was honestly a lot like being a kid in a candy store. I left with a bag full of chiffon, denim and let's face it - 100% nylon for about 100 Euros (ok maybe a little more - but not that much more). It's fair to say though that I was treated like crap - even though I've perfected the art of saying "graTHios" they still doubted my authenticity - the fact that I was also able to say the number of items I was taking into the changing rooms in Spanish also held no weight. In revenge I went into Prada and spent a lot more on a lot less but with a bigger bag and some fizzy water. (BTW I did not buy these shoes).

Per Fume.

I get a lot of crap from my friends for buying Clarins as they think it's a crappy 80's brand - apparently it looks like something Pentagram designed and then wished they hadn't. But I have had a serious love affair with these guys for years - especially anything they do for le body. I can't stand perfume as within minutes of having it on, I actually feel sick. This is also aided and abetted by Nigel who also hates perfume - one time he actually asked our receptionist in Sydney to stop wearing it, as his office was next door and it was seriously affected his ability to do a brand pyramid. Anyhow I am in love with Clarins Eau Dynamisante - it smells really nice and clean and the other plus is by the time I'm out of my bedroom and down the stairs - it's somehow evaporated - leaving me to wonder why I bother but let's at least be glad that any up and coming brand pyramids are not affected. But as we skidaddled through Schipol airport yesterday - I noticed that Clarins have just launched this stuff which is meant to 'boost' skin on your face. As I am always in need of such a boosting I bought one and so far I can vouch for it. So to all of you who lived life large in the 80's - turn up Prince, get your spandex on, pour a cinzano and slap some of this gear on ya Chevy Chase.

You give me fever.

Thanks Gods we didn't get our 'Pie Yayah' from this joint.

Toro.

I made a very bad judgement call last night and went with Nigel to the bull fight. I hadn't thought too hard about it because A. I assumed that in the age of dog reiki and cat psychology, nothing much would be allowed to happen to bulls. And B. I just thought the matador would do that little shaking thing with his cape and the bull would run at it a few times. Anyway this was as far from reality as I could imagine. I'm not even going to grace this blog with what happens but safe to say I cried from the minute it started and we left as soon as we could (they lock you in once a fight starts and no one can leave or enter until that fight is over). I've since done what I should have done before I left and looked it up. It turns out that now bullfighting is a protected 'art' in Spain because of its social, political and cultural significance.

Madrid - it's real.

As we queue to get on the flight to Madrid - I spot this seasons must have wardrobe item.

I am

Sterdam.

Barge in.

Very nice cycling around Hamsterjam though a lot of naffing around with locks. 

Pulease.

Personalised Pulitzer courtesy of Le Labo.

What a weirdough.

There are 2 kinds of people in this world, those that love pizza and liars.

Ocean's 16.

On the subject of George, we are staying at the Pulitzer Hotel where Ocean's Twelve was shot. I am seriously convinced that we are in the actual room he stayed in. For a start there are grey hairs on the pillows, the toilet seat is up and there are whiskers in the sink. They probably never let house keeping in this room - preserving it just as he left it.

What a dope.

We went to Dampkring and bought ourselves a 'special' cake today. Last time I had one of these, it was 2013 and I was in Paris and soon after eating I saw Meryl Streep. This time I'm hoping for George Clooney.

Bar fly.

Rumour has it that 15 men drown in Amsterdam's canals every year, peeing in them while sozzled. Apparently cause of death - easy to spot as bodies are found with their fly's open. If you are caught (while still alive) you can be fined up to 90 Euro. We spotted these guys as we walked back to our hotel tonight - but wee weren't bothered.

Ja.

Actual Amster-jam.

All Rijk then.

Come oh Vermeer and if you're lucky, I'll buy you a pearl earring. 

Resevoir dog.

Which one is the dumb animal?

Deep Purple

Where is my prince?

(King)Kong

Margarita, red wine, bread, butter, foie gras and cheese - next stop - ER. 

Kong

Dinner at the place where Carrie met 'The Russian's' x wife. I took my own Mr Big.

Shave me.

When did beards take over the whole world?

What a croque.

He made a right show of me today. We ordered a croque madame (to share). While he was fretting for it to turn up, he kept fussing with his coffee and how lined up it was with sugar bowl and other condiments (let it not be said he's OCD) Anyway the next minute, the whole lot had gone over and completely ruined the brand new white table cloth they'd just laid out for us. In an instant two of the garconages swooped in, moving everything around and off the table, so that they could give us a fresh one - I'm talking linen here as well. As the food arrived, he got himself all excited again realigning his chair and grabbing his cutlery so that he had the best advantage to get the lions 'share' but the french tables are not built for Kiwi man's knees and the whole cussing coffee went over yet again.

Not any old Ryan.

Rather a lovely surprise to find ourselves in gay Paris at the same time as our friend G. We take our hats off to her as she's driven herself successfully around Europe with her son Ryan as backup, chief navigator and hander out of sweets - (BTW that's not Ryan Gosling, Ryan Reynolds or Ryan O'Neil) though as it turns out this Ryan is no less famous as just recently he became the poster child of young Kiwi males not being welcome at back packers across their own country ie EN ZUD. It turns out he's had no such problems here in Europe - Kiwi, vegan males, accompanied by a paying adult being amongst some of the most popular youngsters here in Paris.