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Diary

On a roll
Spain travel diary, part 4

August 15, 2003
The Iranian

Day 2
By 5:30am we had left the hotel room, and once again headed for the Barcelona Train station (aka the smoking room). On the way we ate some almonds and sultanas that Safa found in one of the many random and totally unnecessary side pockets of her backpack. This was pretty much all we had eaten in days. The weight of the backpacks was not pleasant on our already bruised shoulders, but we got a good night's sleep so we weren't complaining (yet).

Safa and I took a deep breath and asked for two tickets to Madrid. The woman behind the counter obviously recognized us since we'd spent the whole day at the train station the day before and was pleased to inform us that the train was practically empty and handed us our long awaited for tickets to Madrid.

We arrived in Madrid some hours later, rested and ready to finally start our holiday.

It took a little while to find our hostel because every turn we'd make would be a shoe store that got us overly excited and distracted. And for some reason, Safa's freaky 'random Italian tourist' radar was fully active... everyone she picked out to ask directions from turned out to be an Italian on holiday. However, once we put our minds to it, we had no problems finding the quaint little hostel run by a sweet old lady.

To our amazement, the hostel was nicely furnished with double and single beds, shower and toilet, large cupboard and a TV.

Unpacking didn't take a very long time, and neither did showering. Before you could say Suavemente, we were in the main square in Madrid. Finally, we were out and about like normal holidaymakers should be. We felt good, we looked good and we were ready for some fun!

I had made an online contact with a salsa crazed guy in Spain whom I was sure would know which clubs we should go to. We called him as soon as we got back to the hostel early that evening. He said that he'd meet up with us somewhere and take us to the good clubs. WOO HOO!

It was approaching sunset when we sat at a restaurant to have Paella and eat our first proper meal in days. As we waited for our meal to arrive we chatted excitedly and planned out the rest of our time in Madrid.

An hour or so later, we left most of the shell-infested seafood graveyard they call Paella on the table and started to stroll back to our hostel. Rounding the corner of the street our hostel was on, we heard a faint yet familiar sound. Salsa music! Little did we know that the ground floor of this otherwise normal looking hostel was none other than a full blown Salsa club.

At the door were three extremely large Black men, all in suits. I untied my hair and pushed my breasts up to a new level. Applied a little lip-gloss and started to walk past the men. Like I said earlier, don't be fooled by the fact that we don't eshveh, we are both familiar with it and are not afraid of using it. Within seconds, we were all friends!

Our new friends, informed us that the nightclub doesn't really get started until midnight and that we'd be wasting our time going in now. So we took their advice, went upstairs, slept, showered and got ready for our first night of Salsa.

It was close to 12 when we came down the stairs to find people lined up across our door way. We looked right and there was a huge line of dressed up people. We looked to the left and the line curved into the door way of the club.

So as Safa turned to the left to go line up, I said 'You must be kidding,' grabbed her arm and went straight to the front where we were let in immediately and without any charge. I mean, we're friends after all :o)

They were right. Although the club was not large, the dance floor was and since it was a Friday night, it was jam-packed full of people.

A few hours after arriving, Safa gestured to me that she was hot and was going outside for some air. The song I was dancing to finished, I thanked my partner, peeled his grasping-for-dear-life hold off my ass, and followed Safa outside.

She was standing talking to a guy in an orange satin-esque shirt (which is really not her style) with a little grin on her face. I walked closer and found that there was no mistaking the fact that he was Iranian.

Let me interrupt here just to say something about Safa: she's the type that will sit silently and never say that she's Iranian, just to see what these people say. So this is what she was doing. This poor guy was trying so hard to speak to her in English, and in between, he'd turn to his friend in Farsi and ask how to say something in English, hence explaining the grin on Safa's face.

(to be continued)

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