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I met him a long time ago in Mexico. I saw him again in Peru, and ended up travelling with him for two months straight (making him my only real travelling companion on this trip). And I last saw him four months ago, back in Argentina. Today, I had yet another reunion with my buddy Chris: only this time, it was here in London, on his home soil; and since we're both going to opposite sides of the world very soon (and staying on those respective sides indefinitely), today's reunion really was our last (I'm serious this time — I swear). But before we parted for good, Chris and I had time for one last lunch. And since the food was some of London's finest Indian cuisine, there really wasn't anything sad about it at all.

I was bored this evening, so I went to one of the many cinemas in London's Leicester Square, and watched "Michael Clayton". This is a new George Clooney film, and it's based on the true story of a lawyer's battle to bring down an unethical agricultural company. I don't want to give away any more than that. This is very different from Clooney's usual style: he seems to be increasingly moving away from his traditional "action man" and "romantic thriller" genres, and chasing down roles of more serious, intellectual substance. This is a deep movie, and not one for those seeking a quick laugh or a constant blast of gunfire. Nevertheless, I thoroughly enjoyed it, and I highly recommend it.

Lovely, sunny England is where I began my sojourns in Europe; and so too is it where I'm concluding them. Sunny — yeah, right; as usual, it's cold and wet and miserable here! I'm not exactly ecstatic about being back in England: especially after Spain, with its pleasant weather, its exotic vibe, and its upbeat spirit. But sadly, I booked London as the departure point for my flight out of Europe (many moons ago); and so it's to London that I had to return. In retrospect, I should have tried to fly out from somewhere else — anywhere else — on the continent.

Piccadilly Backpackers is fairly similar to both the other hostels that I've stayed at, here in London: it's big, it's impersonal, and it feels awfully similar to a prison. Three tries, and still no budget accommodation with character in this city: I guess it's just a London thing. Anyway, Piccadilly Backpackers is at least in an excellent location; and putting the rest of the enormous complex aside, the hostel's small lounge and common room is quite charming and very friendly. Good place to stay if you need to crash in London for a few nights.

It was a long evening, getting out of Barcelona and back to London tonight. A long bus ride to yet another dodgy Ryanair airport. A long wait once at the airport. And an extremely long delay once we'd arrived back in dear old Inglaterra. Exciting, ridiculous, and heated at times. But most of the way, just long and extremely tedious. Travelling in Europe during the Christmas-break rush, and getting stuck right in the thick of that rush, simply ain't fun at all.

Along with various other new arrivals, one of the people that I met at the much-frequented Kabul bar this evening was a guy from Sicily! This fellow's in his early 30s: and although all his family are from Sicily, he's now living and working in Ireland. He was very impressed when I told him about the Great Sicilian Ride that I did; and he was even more impressed with the fact that I knew where his home village was! He said he was from "near Caltanissetta"; to which I replied: "ah, Caltanissetta! It must also be near Pietraperzia, and Piazza Armerina — I rode through those places." The Sicilian came with us to the Flamenco encore this evening.

Last night's Flamenco was so good, I just had to go see it again. The fact that it was still free, and still next door, also provided plenty of incentive. My friend Deanna (and her buddy Jenny) left this morning; but I had a new crowd to take along to teh show tonight, including my mate the Sicilian. Tonight's show was very similar, but somewhat different: about 2 of the 5 performers were new; and most of the songs and dances were also new. However, the style and the ambiance were identical to that of the first performance. Once again, great fun and a very impressive show.

To continue my wanderings in Barcelona, this afternoon I took advantage of the improved weather, and I decided to go for a walk up to Montjuïc. This hill — literally meaning "hill of the Jews" — holds some of the city's most important landmarks; and from its slopes and peak, it affords gorgeous views of the whole of Barcelona. I started by walking west up Las Ramblas, and by then cutting south, along the main avenue that leads to the hill. I passed between the two towers that guard the main road up to the hill; and I ascended the lavishly decorated hillside that faces this road, and that's flanked by numerous museums, sweeping stairways and grand fountains. After, I wandered further up the hill, getting quite near to the 1992 Olympic Stadium, before wandering down past the teleférico (cable car) that straddles the eastern hillside, ahead of the onset of dark.

I think that my experiences as the victim of theft have finally driven me to the edge of insanity. This afternoon, I was about 15 minutes' walk away from the hostel — on my way to go exploring Montjuïc — when I was suddenly seized by a flash of paranoia. "Oh s$#%", I suddenly asked myself, "did I shut my locker before I left the hostel?" I knew that this random, irrational fear was most likely unfounded: but I also realised that so bad was my paranoia becoming, that if I didn't turn around and return to the hostel straightaway (to check the locker), then I'd have no peace of mind for the rest of the afternoon. So I walked briskly back to the hostel. And, as I suspected, I had indeed remembered to shut my locker, and it was locked safe 'n' sound when I inspected it. Dear G-d: what on Earth is this trip doing to me?!

Over the past few days, I've been developing a bit of a cold. The birthday runs yesterday didn't help, either; although I was already coming down with something before that happened. Anyway, I guess all that partying over Christmas and New Year has finally caught up to me: I am officially sick with the flu now. Mainly just gunk in the 'ol nose and throat — hopefully it won't get any worse than that. So I'm going to have to take it easy, until I shake off whatever it is that I've caught.