At the time I was frustrated, furious and had quite a dislike of the French. My first trip to Europe had begun about 2 weeks prior and already with 3 more weeks to go I was beginning to feel travel fatigue set in and the loneliness of traveling alone creep up. With rail pass in hand I had made my way from London to Paris through Madrid and on towards Cinque Terre Italy. The Italian destination however called on me to catch a connecting train in Barcelona. Everything was going to plan and as expected.
The plan, as it was, was simple, disembark in Barcelona, figure out the platform from which I would head east, out of Spain, through southern France and into Italy. The problem was, when I reached the platform I had determined to lead me towards my destination, I found that the terminus was not in Italy but rather, Spain. Checking and rechecking my thought process (I must admit I hate asking for directions) I gave up and stood in line at the Estacio-Sants ticket window.
“The French rail workers are on strike.” “But when can I expect this to be over?” “I cannot say. Tomorrow, the next day…I do not know.”
Well, with no hostel, no research on Barcelona and no idea how I was to get out of Spain and on with my trip I felt “stuck”. Resigned to at least spend one night in the Spanish city I set out to the first hostel listed in my guidebook, booked a room, took a shower, overheard a 
conversation about a cruise to Italy and assigned myself with the task of finding a beer to plan tomorrow with. By chance, I wandered into a small bar just up the street from the hostel and just off Las Rambla’s called Bodega el Aguelo. Pork legs hung from the ceiling with the hope of someday becoming tasty prosciutto, uncomfortable wooden benches encouraged one to drink, and homemade schnapps (or brandy…I still have no idea how to classify it) lined shelves behind the bar. By the end of the evening I had taken photos with the owners, planned the rest of my trip (avoiding France), and realized that getting “stuck” in Barcelona is one of the best things that could have happened to me.
I spent the next two days touring the city, wandering the streets, discovering wonders that I had no intention of seeing and rediscovering that the unexpected does not have to be unwelcome. The overheard conversation at my hostel had turned me on to the possibility of taking a cruise from Barcelona to Italy and that is exactly what I did. Seeking out a small tourist office, I found that for about
50 bucks (at the time) I could simply hop on a boat and sail over night across the Mediterranean. This also proved to be quite a memorable evening and has been a staple of my visits to Spain…but that’s another story. When all was said and done, my little stopover in Barcelona turned me on to a city that is rarely left out of my travels. Each time I return, I stop off in my favorite little bar, take pictures with the owner, wander the narrow streets and remember how getting “stuck” freed me from being stuck with a plan and expectations.
Sometimes the best times are the un-planned ones!