Almost a year after my first encounter with vibrant city in Spain (or Catalans) North, I returned. I promised I would. This time I was determined to leave with cultural encounters and impressions – not just bizarre memories and an extreme hangover. (Well maybe a couple of bizaare memories and some mild hangovers.)

It was a spontaneous move. I had just left my life in Iceland and booked the next flight to Spain. I arrived at my (amazing) hostel -Fabrizzios Terrace, dumped my bag next to my bed and passed out. Having a quarter life crisis is exhausting.

The next day I rediscovered the city. I basked under the sun and remembered how much I loved the vibrancy of the city – even whilst completely sober. I overindulged on fresh produce from Mercat de La Boqeria, I relaxed on the terrace semi-socializing with the enthusiastic tourists who had only recently landed in Europe on their summer trips – getting pretty sick of Aussie accents pretty quickly, and decide to join a pub crawl with some very cool Australians who had just kicked off their summer – Sandra and Veronica.

My last visit to the city would be a hard act to follow, but I had to try. The small Mexican pub crawl leader rounded us up and we began at some tacky bars packed to the brim with tourists. We made the most out of our “free” drinks from our 20 euro participation fee and loitered outside getting abused by security guards.

The night started innocently enough. Shots were set on fire, cocktails were ordered and tourists were stumbling. And then the memories began to be more and more bizarre…

We ended up at some club where I tried to learn how to R&B groove like Sandra and Veronica, who both had very un-white girl dance moves. Their hips did not lie.

Eventually I must have given up and accepted that my moves will never be as good as theirs so I escaped outside to get some fresh air. La Rambla was buzzing in a typical Saturday-night style. A range of languages and accents could be heard along the streets and I began to walk aimlessly along the streets.

After finding myself alone in a dark alleyway I decided to head back, I met some lovely young Italians and then some a group of young Italians, and then another group. It got to the point that I was convinced that I was no longer in Spain.

I tried to explain my situation…

“So you’re from Australia?”

“Yes”

“But you live in Iceland?”

“Yes”

“And now you’re in Spain?”

“Yes”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not sure…”

Understandable they were confused, even without the language barrier it probably would have been confusing. (Even I was confused by this point).

Regardless of the weirdness of the Australian they had just met, they were incredibly friendly. Realising I was alone and had lost the only two friends I had briefly made in the city they decided to adopt me into their group for the night.

They listened to my ongoing commentary with what looked like genuine interest, I am a talker when intoxicated. Some even asking their friends to translate my fast Australian speech.

Eventually we headed to the beach. It seemed like my time in Europe had come full circle, and I ended a great night in the same way as my last visit to the city, once again surrounded by great people waiting for daybreak.

Watching the sunrise from the edge of Barcelona was, once again, a reminder that even the best nights must come to an end. Even in Barcelona. Eventually it will always be time to go to bed. Sometimes you will wake up motivated to explore the world, and sometimes you may realise that it is time to go home.