We got into Barcelona a day early and Ana, our friend (on Matador), was still out of the city. I figured we'd get a cheap hostel and stay the night....but as soon as we got off the metro I knew we were in for it. Wow! Barcelona is crackin'!

Coming from the airport, we emerged from the metro station in the center of town and we were instantly shocked by the sheer number of people out on the streets. In a single eye-shot, down one of the popular Ramblas, you could see tens of thousands of people. You would think the Olympics are here or something!

We were in trouble. Lacking a reservation, we walked around the city with our packs for three hours. From the 4 star hotel to the ghetto-looking hostel in a random alley, EVERYTHING was "completo". Full. Booked.

Maybe it was beach time? Not ideal with $3000 worth of electronics in your backpack, among other things....but what else was there to do?

Stall....and drink. So that's what we did. We came across some guy an hour later in this place called the Travel Bar--who had a friend that had a "hostel". We were told he'd come collect us. We waited and waited. Two and a half hours later, we met Sam.

Sam is a tall, skinny British guy who is in charge of a three bedroom apartment that becomes an unmarked hostel for travelers who have no where else to go. He walked us to the place as he told us about the drum & bass tent last weekend at a Barcelona music festival called Primavera, and how hard he was rolling on E. Thanks for sharing, Sam...

The place was a shithole but it was the only game in town. After hours of walking with the packs that day, the four story walk-up was a slap in the face, but we were just psyched we didn't have to sleep on the beach. As far as I could tell at least 5 people lived there full time and the rest of the other four bunk beds were occupied by desperate travelers like ourselves.

The only bed open was the honeymoon suite, so for twenty Euros Polansky and I got to share this horrible, saggy mattress that felt like it was about to fall through the floor into the apartment below us. The bathroom was also pretty disgusting, but we weren't complaining. The ordeal was over and we'd be out of here in the morning.

We were starving and eager to get back to exploring the streets of Barcelona so Polansky jumped in the shower and I began to roll a porro. No sooner had I started that, I heard a noise and looked up to see a skinny, roughed-up man about 40 years of age, standing before me in his briefs. He began to roll a cigarette and introduced himself as "Foxy" in an English accent so thick I could barely understand him. (I REALLY wish I had a picture of this guy because he was a sight to be seen.)

It was obvious he had been sleeping in the other room because there was a crease across his face from the sheet. It's normal for people to take long siestas in Spain but it was after midnight by now and he looked as if he was coming off a bender. As he turned around to look for a lighter I noticed that old Foxy had gotten a severe sunburn on his neck, back and the backs of his legs. I fought off the laughter with everything I had.

"You get a little sun there, Foxy?" I said.

"Urrhhhh! Bloody came from the sea." He replied with a grunt.

At first I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but as he lit his cigarette with the sandy lighter he had pulled from his backpack, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. He proceeded to tell me the story of his ordeal over the last 48 hrs, but I already knew what had happened.

Foxy had been staying at Kabul, one of the biggest hostels in Barcelona. He got completely wasted and came back to the hostel and was a little "confused" about which bed was his. After passing out in multiple empty beds and getting kicked out one by one by other outraged travelers, Foxy got kicked out of Kabul at 4am.

As he put it, "I forgot to pay and couldn't find my bed and they packed my bags and everything."

Thrown out on the street at 4am with his backpack, Foxy had gone to sleep on the beach--and sleep he did--until 3pm when he awoke to the scorching Spanish sun on his back. Fried and disoriented, Foxy had gathered up his things and wandered around the city for hours looking for another hostel, but everything was "Completo!" Lucky for him, he ran into the same guy we had, and that guy had called Sam to come get him.

Foxy had made me feel great about my life.

We set off into the night feeling like a million bucks and spent a couple hours eating and drinking in the maze of streets behind Plaza Royal (pretty cool area to bar hop).

We ended the night with a porro on the roof with some of our 'traveler's commune' friends, and had plenty of laughs as the sun rose over Barcelona.