I had known intuitively, to some degree, of the starkly contrasting cultures of Switzerland and Spain. Yet, as is often the case, I found myself in no way prepared for the change I was to experience after spending four days in immaculate Zurich.

Some of these changes were felt instantaneously, whilst others crept into my acknowledgement in a more stealthy, ninja-like manner. Where Zurich is mild, Barcelona is unceasingly intense.The climate in Spain has been unfailingly hot and brilliant. The full physical implications of this were felt in my flailing attempts to find my hostel located in the centre-north of the city. Whereupon my arrival in Zurich was relatively effortless and initial navigation of the city easy, Barcelona saw me walking frantically around the enormous Placa de Catalunya at eleven thirty at night, in dire search of the nearby Passeig de Gracia, which did not seem to want t be found. After half an hour, I was cursing breathlessly the apparent deference Spanish town planners exercise towards street signs that are - god forbid - easily visible. My cumbersome and almost unwieldy load of luggage, added to being drenched in sweat as a result of the night-time heat made for what must have been a helpless and despairing image. Possibly bemused, a local passer-by stopped to provide what I was staunchly and stupidly refusing to seek beyond my own fruitless consultations of a city map - directions. Needless to say this show of kindness was welcomed with open, sweaty arms and neutralised the countless discouraging anecdotes I have been told regarding the pervasion of pickpockets and other malicious types in the city*.

The last thing I want to do is to attempt to shape this story into a metaphor for my experience so far in Spain, but you could probably find one in there if you were so inclined.

*Anecdotes but also, I suppose, semi-personal experience. Towards the messy end of a pub crawl initiated by a lovely and energetic bunch of guests at the hostel, it was decided that a swim in the main beach of Barcelona at three o´clock in the morning was the sort of idea that should be acted upon. Clothes were shed to undergarment level. Wading and general cavorting in the water was enjoyed, and merriment ensued. The story takes a turn for the worse, when upon leaving the water for the journey back to the hostel (an activity requiring clothing), our token New Zealander discovers his jeans have been targeted for theft - resulting in the loss of money, hostel keys et al. A pair of womens´denim shorts, kindly and selflessly donated by a girl wearing a long-ish top, must make do for the trip home on the metro. The good news: they fit rather well. Almost too well.

•

I don´t know if I´ve learnt that much about myself in the course of these first two weeks of traveling. There have been no particularly epiphanic moments regarding the deepest and most secret elements of my being inspired by, say, savouring Sprungli macarons in Zurich, or experiencing the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. Except, perhaps, for one realisation: I am one fuck-lazy tourist.

Couchsurfing in Zurich with Bjorn (quite possibly the chillest guy living in Switzerland) inadvertently established some fertile ground for my month´s worth of tortoise-paced European travels. Holding one of the most select yet extensive collections of movies showcasing an impeccable taste for cinema, a disappointingly overcast couple of days provided a convenient excuse to educate myself in the film oeuvre of Mr. D Lynch. After two days of wandering the impeccably clean, wide, leafy Bahnofstrasse and surrounds, as well as getting lost in the narrow, cobblestone streets around Neumarkt (and replenishing energy levels in the small cafes which make you feel like a cultured and accomplished human being for having discovered them), it seemed apt to immerse oneself in the disorientating and fucked up world of Mulholland Drive and Lost Highway (yes. I had time to watch two.). Let´s face it, there´s only so much painfully punctual and efficient public transport, and fairytale-evoking architecture you can handle before you feel like you´re going to throw up the perfectly-crisp rosti you had for breakfast.

•