Aventuras en España

I am a pretty laid-back traveller. I also don’t really enjoy doing or planning things ahead of time. Travelling with people who are similar to me in this way almost always leads to some ridiculous, and fun, situations. This weekend was an adventure of sorts.

A few weeks ago, my friends Steven, Charlotte, and I bought some tickets to go see Shakira in concert. We were psyched…what could be better than Shakira? Oh, only Shakira IN SPAIN. The tickets said the concert was in Alicante, which is a costal city a couple hours outside of Valencia that Steven and Charlotte had both visited before. We figured we’d spend the day there and then go to the concert. We didn’t really want to bother with a hostel, and one of the receptionists/life coaches at our school, who was also going to the concert, suggested, “Why don’t you just stay out all night and catch the first train in the morning?” Excellent! Done and done.

However, Saturday morning, a few hours before we were scheduled to leave, I discovered that
the concert was not in the city of Alicante, only in the region of Alicante. It was actually in Torrevieja, a little city about an hour away. We figured out we could take a bus from Alicante, but getting back from there was the issue. We didn’t know if there’d be anything to do in Torreviaja for the night, or if there would be a return bus at a reasonable hour.

We decided to figure it out when we got there. All that really mattered was making it to the concert. Plus, if we had to get back, that meant other people did too.

“Maybe there will be a special Shakira bus,” we hoped.

We made it to Torrevieja, got some doner kebabs (more on those later), and hailed a taxi like all the other concert goers, since, still, we had no idea where we were going.

“Take us to Shakira!” we said.

So we made it to the venue. We stood around in line, ate our doners, sipped on our single-serving wine juiceboxes (since, unlike in America, they don’t force you to pay for their $7 concert beers) and then it started to rain, like we heard it might. Charlotte and I had neglected to bring waterproof jackets or an umbrellas, so plastic bags would have to suffice.

By the time the concert was ready to start, the rain was dying down and the crowd was shouting “paraguas fueras!” or something like that, to get everyone to get rid of the umbrellas that were in everyone’s way. Then, Shakira performed, she was great, and of course, spoke in Spanish the entire time, to our delight. The Spaniards tried to sing along to “Hips Don’t Lie,” but they didn’t actually know the words. Amateurs.

So then, the concert ended. Now what, we thought. There was a verbena (street party) going on outside the venue, so we hung out at that for a while, before making our way to the bar scene, which was surprisingly busy. However, we were tired–of lack of sleep and of hanging around with crowds of 16 year-olds–but we had nowhere to go until 9am, when the first bus left Torrevieja to Alicante. We had no idea where we were, stranded at 4am in a random little town in Spain, an hour outside another random, but larger, town in Spain, two hours away from our temporary home.

We had to get back to Alicante. Torrevieja for another five hours was not going to happen.

Charlotte and I frantically flagged down a taxi.

“How much to Alicante?” we asked.
“Alicante?? Now? Well, I guess about 60, but I’m not sure.”
“60 Euros? Great, we’ll take it. Take us to the train station!”

So, split between three, that 60 euros was a fabulous deal and money WELL-spent. He even made us pay up front, since, in fact, taking an hour cab ride when you’re not going to the airport is a little bit shady. But then, we arrived, to the glorious front steps of the Alicante train station…which was closed.

There was nothing to do but wait. So Charlotte and I sat be the door and killed some time like normal human beings while Steven got stared at by every passerby as:30, he slept on the steps like a homeless man in a Northface jacket. At 5:45, the station opened, and we migrated inside. At 6:30, the ticket center opened. By 6:55, we were fast asleep on the first train back to Valencia.

María José said she didn’t hear me when I came in at about 9am. There wasn’t much to hear, actually, besides opening the door, because the first thing I did was pass out on my bed until lunch time.

The Spanish have a saying: “Vale la pena,” or “It’s worth the pain.” We kept saying that all night/morning, but really, what pain was there? It was just plain “worth it” for a good adventure and a Shakira concert.