Portugal is beautiful. The hostel in Portimao was a bit of a bust; It was on the edge of town, and nearly no one else was staying there. Combined with the occasional rain storm, this lead plenty of reading and walking.

It's been a while, since I've been able to tear through books at this rate. I'm glad most hostel facilitate used book trading; It's a great way to discover titles one might never have run across, at book stores or at the library.

Shannon is on antibiotics now. Her cough decided that it would stick around for two weeks, so we went to the Portimao walk-in clinic. From there, we went to the local Hospital for an X-Ray. We thought the X-Ray was a bit of overkill, but I guess over-cautious is better than under-cautious. The final prognosis was that of a chest infection.

Navigating the Portuguese medial system was a little tricky, considering the language barrier, but we managed.

The internet cafe we're sitting in right now, is in Lagos, Portugal. Good times.

In certain parts of Spain, 'C's and 'Z's are often pronounced as 'TH's. Whereas, I might be inclined to express my thanks with "Grassy-ass", a local will say "Gra-thi-as" or "Gra-thi-a." Similarly, the word "plaza" is spoken as "pla-tha."

I can't help but imagine hoards of lisping Roman soldiers, spreading their Vulgar Latin, through-out the Iberian Peninsula, during the 3rd to 1st century B.C.

Our bus to Portimao, Portugal, leaves in a couple hours. I'm told the pronunciation of Portuguese can be tricky for foreigners; the vowel sounds are often muted, or nasalised. Our phrase book describes one tourists impression of the language, as sounding like "a drunken Frenchman trying to speak Spanish."

One morning, while eating our free youth hostel breakfast (baguette, jam, tea) in Paris, an Asian couple asked us a question.

"You grew up with bread?"

They grew up with rice. The crusty bread, the French are so fond of, was driving them crazy; they were tired of all the chewing.

Yesterday, in the Granada bus station, we bumped into them again. They were leaving. We were arriving.

In a flurry of excitement, we traded travel tales. They had seen a bullfight, and had the ear of the bull in their backpack. I saw it: A rich chocolate brown. The exposed flesh was starting to rot. The attached hair was longer than I would have expected.

They gave us some fruit and some postcards. I gave them some stickers.

Later, when we arrived at our hostel, we were hungry and without food. A small shop around the corner supplied us with dehydrated soup, and a can of bean salad with tuna.

While waiting for access to the stove, we watched a soon to be friend, prepare a pasta feast. Our mouths watered. We looked down at our dehydrated soup, slowly hydrating in a small pot. The pasta chef looked down at our dehydrated soup. He smiled. We smiled back. Smiles of embarrassment at the inequality of our meals.

Let me tell you, the pasta was delicious. So was the salad and bread, that our new friend so graciously shared with us.

Hostel life is like that.

Tomorrow, we leave Valencia for Granada. I believe it's a six hour bus trip. Luckily, we have music, and 2 kilograms of Mandarin oranges. I am looking forward to visiting the Alhambra, a former Moorish fortress [google images].

Our stay in Valencia has been relaxing. Known as the orchard of Spain, due to it's fertile soils, Valencian farms are still watered via an irrigation system devised by the Moors, many moons ago. The fruit and vegetables here are tasty and succulent, yet cheap. A bottle of local wine cost 75 Euro cents.

In the mornings, we have been running in a picturesque park, which spans the entire city. After extensive flooding, the river that ran through town was diverted. The river-bed was converted into snaking green-space, soccer fields, fountains and trails.

We found the bus terminal today, and bought two tickets for Valencia. We leave on Saturday, at 14:30.

We also visited the Barcelona Aquarium. The sharks and penguins were our favourite aquatic beasts.

Shannon has been a little under the weather. Last night, she awoke to chills, and then a fever. To make matters worse, the man next to us was snoring, loudly. I reached for the earplugs.

I managed to purchase a bottle of cough syrup for Shannon.

The conversation:

Me: Habla Inglés?

Me: [Nod]

Props to Erin, for giving us our European phrasebook.

Yesterday, we explored Park Guell [google images], and La Sagrada Familia [google images], two amazing Gaudi creations.

There are parrots here. We are no longer in Paris. Barcelona is now our home.

Howie and Tania came to Paris on Friday. Hence, my recollection of Friday night is a bit of a blur. Our night began with 4 bottles of wine. I remember debating the limits of love with a fellow traveller named Chris. We ate Mexican food. We stumbled home, happy and full.

During our stay in Paris, we lived in 4 separate locations, in 3 different parts of town. By the time we left, my rusty French was starting to flow.

We had been warned that Parisians were rude. Not so. Perhaps they appreciated my rusty French?

Now, in Spain, Shannon and I find ourselves in the same boat: We do not speak the language. Actually, I should say languages. Since, Spanish, Catalan, Basque are all spoken in various parts of this country.

Last nights dinner was a true hostel experience. Our food provided by the kitchen's free shelf. All markets being closed on Sunday, past noon.

Just a quick note: I've uploaded a few photos from paris.

The metro here is fantastic; the entire city is a snap to navigate and explore.

Today we visited a creepy cemetery. There, we located Jim Morrison's final resting place. Guards were posted nearby, supposedly to stop spliff-toting pilgrims from lighting up in homage.

On Saturday, we jogged around the Place des Vosges, a symmetrical park, near what was once Victor Hugo's home. We were joined by a handful of Parisian runners. The streets were wet on the way home. The morning cleaning crews had washed away the dog shit, and rubbish from the previous day.

That evening, after a long game of phone tag, we met up with Jake, Val, Ian, and his girlfriend, who's name now eludes me. We took an evening boat ride down the Seine, and enjoyed the evening festival, that had people partying in the streets until the wee hours of the night.

Sunday saw us visiting the Louvre, Sainte Chapelle, and the Pantheon, home of Foucault's Pendulum. This was an awe inspiring day, and that is an understatement.

We are presently bunking with my sister Colleen, in a small hotel, around the corner from our last hostel.

Side note: The French laugh in the face of Dr. Atkins, (and all of his fat friends.) Carbs galore, and we have yet to see an obese Parisian.