Dialogue: Bombed, ripped off and in a train fire

Okay, what's going on? What is the universe trying to tell me?

First the bombing business in Madrid, which was far enough away for me not to get burned but still a close enough shave to be singed; the bag grab in Barceloneta, despite my keeping a tight rein on my bits; and then, if that's not enough, the train on which I'm trying to leave Spain catches fire before it even gets to the border.

Although it's actually all quite funny and at least I'm not in it alone.

I hooked up with the dancer girl Kate in Madrid, where we had a reunion walking circles round squares.

And with her mission of debunking the myth that all foreign travellers are slobs, that makes her a never-a-dull-moment kind of girl. Her pack has to weigh at least 50kg, and probably half of that is shoes.

When I arrived in Madrid, with its charms and its parks, I thought about setting up house. It seemed lovely, you know. The people were great and the weather not as hot as I'd thought.

But Kate had a plan to head north to the beaches of Barcelona and would I like to come, too?

Of course, how mad to spend summer far from sand and the surf and I'm always open to change. So we pulled an amusing out-there-all-nighter, because what's the point of a room when you're leaving at dawn?

We got to Barcelona, a little jaded and grubby, but our apartment was the place to scrub up - more a home than a hostel in a huge old stone building, complete with a central courtyard and beautiful tiles and ceilings. I could gush if I were that way inclined.

Also, it's near to La Rambla, a broad pedestrian boulevard reached by narrow lanes and crowded through the day and the night.

The markets go on and on forever and, in the middle, the craziest pet shops selling fruitbats, cockerels, mutated old hamsters, whatever. If it's not extinct, you can probably obtain it.

The Gaudi stuff, of course, is amazing, not to mention the shopping, the art and the streets. And my first swim in the Med was pretty much bliss, as was the second, the third and the fourth.

My almost all-over tan is picking up speed and to whomever took my bikini top, you can keep it, superfluous scrap that it was.

Okay, the whole rip-off thing has passed clouds over my sun, if nothing else because it makes one feel stupid and I'm missing my journal, which is kind of like losing my mind.

Apart from unprintable thoughts, it contained addresses and irretrievable numbers, including one for Jorges, a new friend I found in Madrid.

His family, he told me, are not badly off and would I like to spend summer at their house in Mallorca with the windmills, the water, the sun almost 100 per cent guaranteed?

You betcha I would've but, owing to unforeseen circumstances, I've had to let that one go.

It's funny, too, you know, that for years you think some place is right for you and, oh my god, I couldn't have been much more wrong. So, adios to learning Spanish and eating tapas till I popped, but homeless where the heart is and that's kind of where I'm at.

And these kinds of setbacks teach a person to take more care or, perhaps, that one shouldn't become too attached to things. Yeah, yeah, thanks Pollyanna, I can look on the bright side of anything some days.

Now, happily settled for the moment in Nice, which is nice though expensive. But what did I think it would be?

Yo suis and je soy, I'm all fingers and thumbs as I switch from Espanol to Francais. And I can't believe how many men here wear berets and striped shirts.

I thought that was a touristique myth. But they're here all right, baguette under arms, dogs on strings, Gauloise smoke curling up to the sky.

So, yeah, the old cultural exchange rate has been a little too high, my dream of immersion hasn't come true.

But there you go, Mr Editor - you asked, por favor, if I could be a little less perky, perhaps, some of the time.

Well, how's being bombed, then ripped off and nearly killed in the finale watching our train burn to the ground?

* Contact Elisabeth Easther on her travels at imabroad@chickmail.com.