Friday, July 4

Last few hours in Barcelona. Simply too tired to see any more sights or scout for any more sales. Have been trudging around many Zara and Mango stores since arriving by train at 10 am. Surprisingly, the sleeper train wasn't the nightmare I thought it would be. Unlike the last time, when we were packed like sardines in triple decker bunks, this time round, I only had to share with three other women, and there was even enough space between the beds to stretch my legs. The chugging motion of trains is really quite hypnotic and soothing, and I slept quite well, until rudely woken up by the ticket inspector at 8 am.

Credit card has been having a major workout today, so much so that I'm afraid that I'm about to hit my credit limit [cos I have also charged to the same card two air tickets, two separate hotel expenses and countless meals all over Spain].

Just to scare myself into stopping this shopping spree [and no more shopping when I get back to London, despite the summer sales!], here's what I bought in about four hours today:
-- denim jacket which I rationalise I will need to summer in London, since it is always cold at night
-- cute skirt which can be dressed up or dressed down
-- two wrinkled effect shirts so I don't have to do any ironing with the laopok iron in my flat
-- striped bikini top I've been eyeing since Day 1 and I managed to snag the second-last piece on sale
-- lovely set of lingerie including lacy bra, French knickers, thong, camisole, etc. Simply could not resist getting everything, since I feel ill at ease whenever I wear mis-matched underwear

Okie, enough shallow talk about shopping.

I realised that this is probably the last trip I'm gonna be taking for a very long time. With the state of my finances when I return to Singapore, I'd be lucky if I can even afford a trip to my favourite Bangkok.

And after travelling solo in quite a few places, I realise that I can be independent, but it is not my favourite way of travelling. Catching trains and planes alone, ordering and eating alone, wandering around vast monuments alone -- I can do all that without problems, and I quite enjoy the freedom and solitude most of the time. But sometimes, I wish that there is someone with me to worry about missing the last train or getting the date wrong or finding the hotel or losing the passport, and I can just do absolutely nothing.

Gosh, look at the time. I am down to my last 5 euros or so, just a handful of coins left in my pouch, hopefully enough to pay for the Internet usage. And then I'm off to catch the bus to the airport, where I will have more time to kill. At times like these, I really wish I can teleport, and be at home in an instant [And strangely, I regard my tiny flat in London as my home now more than Gillman Heights in Singapore].

First thing to do when I get home is to take a very very very long bath followed by a very very very long nap. Somehow, no matter how long I bathe here or how much sleep I try to get, I never feel clean or rested enough. This 40-hour journey home is no joke.

Some people say it is the journey, not the destination that counts. I have this overly romanticised image in my head of this girl on a rickety bus with the windows open to the dusty road. Her hair is flying in the wind, her head is resting on her backpack and in her hands is a dog-eared book with its pages falling off the spine. And as she finishes reading each yellowed page, she holds it out of the window and it flutters away.

Well, my journey is a lot less romantic, but at least I'm getting there.

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