The ex-military compound of Christiania in Copenhagen has been a self-governed squat for 37 years. While he was having his very own squat, Simon Rashleigh pondered the Christiania locals’ assertion of the ‘right’ to free housing in one of the world’s most expensive cities.

 Christiania

by Simon Rashleigh

“Why should I pay for the right to sleep?” I read this neatly scrawled on the toilet wall as I sit quietly on the loo. It’s early and my brain is ticking over slowly. Why should I pay for the right to sleep? Because everyone else does. Because, well, because. Where do you start the story? With some feudal feud, some ancient king, one cave and two cavemen? Must I defend property rights, or shall I leave that to the state, that state that apparently doesn’t pertain to where I now sit?

Having finished the business for which I had found myself in that smelly concrete room in the first place, I walk out into the streets of Christiania. There’s a middle-aged gent, who looks like he’s seen some things in his life, sitting, toking on a joint. It is never too early for this in Christiania. I walk past the tiny little houses, that look haphazard, yet well cared for. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” I think. There’s so much creativity, so much energy. The community is something organic, with each part still growing. It won’t look the same tomorrow. To be sure, it’s a lovely place, a little oasis in the middle of the city, but I’m uneasy about something… I can’t put my finger on what.

I find my way back to the van, where it is parked by the side of the canal: the border of Christiania. In ten minutes on the bike I can be smack in the centre of Copenhagen. I look across the canal to the apartments of Holmen; they are beautifully converted old warehouses. The architect has, like the residents of Christiania, made the best of the buildings that were already there. But the comparison between the two sides of the canal stops there. I am told that across the way is some of the most expensive real estate in the city. Every apartment has a little boat parked beside it, and it appears that no expense has been spared in providing every modern convenience inside. All cities have a Holmen: that very nice, too-expensive-for-most, residential area, centrally located and with a beautiful setting. Although, there are not too many cities with a Christiania.

“The community where every individual works for the betterment of the community,” or so went the talk, at least back in 1971, when the thing started. Like any place, the residents have not always agreed. Having a liberal drug culture while ensuring the safety of the community is a tricky task. There have been disagreements about the way this should be achieved, and a brief look at the history shows that the place has not always been big enough for everyone’s idea of Christiania. You have to wonder if the community is held together by some kind of common philosophy, or rather, simply by the fact that, like in any community, they share a space. You feel that it is simultaneously pulling together and growing apart.

The government wants it gone, redeveloped, normalized. They want the residents to realize what they refuse to accept: that they are in Denmark and that the laws of the land do apply to them. I walk past the police who patrol the community, in combat gear and in a group. Violence breaks out from time to time, for example, when they want to tear down a building. Scores are arrested in the process, but the police can’t win, and are forced to retreat. If the government ever really had the will to end the dream, to end Christiania, it would be war. For Christianites and Copenhagen residents alike, Christiania means too much.

But does it mean anything? I guess, like most people who visit the community, I want it to go on existing; not because I necessarily believe in the rights of the residents to the land they occupy, but because it is an interesting place. Not only is it an abnormality in an increasingly uniform world, it is a beautiful little retreat in the middle of a modern city. It is a centre of debauchery, no doubt about it, but also a centre of culture. How sad it would be, then, if it became just another suburb. It would push Copenhagen closer to being just another city.

I walk around the place, unconvinced that the dreams of the founders of Christiania were ever, or will ever be realized. It’s not paradise, but the place has a certain magic to it. Any time I enter Christiania I take something away with me. As I leave, reading those defiant words, “You are now entering the EU,” I smile at the cheek, at the delusion, at the truth of the statement. Everyone who has the chance should take a look, before the war comes, before the modern world definitively lays claim to these three city blocks and forces its residents to, like everybody else, pay for the right to sleep.

Check out April’s European Vibe Magazine for Simon’s article on the whole of Copenhagen, where he explains how to get the most out of a weekend trip to the Danish capital.

By Marisa Garcia

My little sister, Mallory, came to visit me from NYC for Semana Santa. Excited to have her, I became her tour guide for the week. She and two of her friends started In Dublin, Ireland for St. Patrick’s Day and then arrived in Madrid on the 18th. Preparing ourselves for Las Fallas we decided to rest up. The next morning we woke up early and rode on the European Vibe party bus to Valencia. Ecstatic to be there we walked around all over Valencia admiring the beautiful ninots before they were burnt to the ground. After a lot of exploring and watching the exuberant fires we hopped back onto the bus and returned to Madrid. After a long day and a half of sleeping we woke up the next morning and headed out to visit the Palacio Real where we saw the beautifully decorated rooms with marble walls and Mahogany doors from Cuba. After the Palacio Real we made our way over to the infamous park, Retiro, where we sat outside and ate at a café across the street for a real bargain! Later that afternoon we moved onto Chueca, Sol and Gran Via where we did a little shopping at the chic boutiques. The last day they were here visiting we visited the Prado and Reina Sofia Museums where we saw some of the exquisite works of Dali, Picasso, Juan Gris, Velazquez, El Greco, Goya and other talented artists. For dinner we decided to try some food that would hit close to home so we ate at Foster’s Hollywood American Café and enjoyed turkey wraps and cheese and bacon fries! Early the next morning my sister left me and this exciting city only to return to another exciting city!

By Khilen Mehta

Put a bunch of fireworks in front of a few mad Englishman and you have a riot on your hands, offer the Spaniards the same and you have Las Fallas 2008! We love Spain for its fiestas, its botellons, and its sangria soaked celebrations. However of everything I have experienced so far, none light up the place quite so literally as Las Fallas. I had all read about the Fallas, and in my head I had dreamed of what I would see but nothing could have prepared me for such a spectacle. The 4 hour coach journey down to Valencia gave me an opportunity to relax and gather my thoughts before what was guaranteed to be a frenetic night. As we passed through the mountains, my head was filled with thoughts of streets full of light, full of people, and full of noise. Boy, I wasn’t disappointed!! We descended the coach to the scenes of little children with their families throwing fire crackers around and I began to grow worried that the longer the night went on, the more alcohol consumed, that these scenes could grow dangerous. But as the night grew old, I was amazed by the respect that the Spaniards had for the festival. The immediate skyline was filled up with massive models or ninots in Spanish. These depicted satirical scenes, and current events with some lampooning current politicians and some even pretending to hang the entire Valencia football team!! The effort gone into these models was what impressed me the most. Many of the models loomed high over the buildings, and even though they would be burnt at the end of the night, the organizations had obviously vested time and interest into impressing those from out of town. We wandered around the centre of the town, and were hit with a parade to rival even the most extreme. Camels, fire eaters and belly dancers were just some of the exhibitions on show as crowds of people lined the streets to experience just what was causing this immense noise. These valencians certainly didn’t do things by half!! Around 10pm, the first fallas infantiles began to be lit. Although these models were a lot smaller, the explosions created were something that just had to be seen to be believed. The heat given off was felt by all around, and the light was blinding. This built up our expectations for the bigger models and as the clock approached midnight crowds of people headed towards the centre ready to witness La Crema, which is the climax of the whole event. The crowds began to chant, the streetlights were turned off, and all of the ninots were set on fire at exactly the stroke of midnight. Incredible…the only word I could use to describe what was seen. Spontaneous fireworks aroused the crowds excitement and when the huge firecrackers were lit, the ground literally shook for minutes as the fallas burned and the pyromaniacs celebrated.

Overall this was an opportunity that needs to be experienced. Words can only describe what I saw that night, but these scenes will live with me forever. Light, color, fire, gunpowder, noise…Las Fallas 2008!

by Simon Rashleigh

Simon Rashleigh dons his backpack to find the ‘unique’ experience - just like everyone else

I’m just another one of those travellers who doesn’t want to be just another fucking traveller. I scoff at the word tourist, them on their package tours, going from one budget hotel to another. I see busloads of them driving past, middle-aged and undoubtedly painfully dull, listening to the guide on the microphone, as her monologue gives meaning to the things that are whizzing past outside. Everybody laughs at the joke about the castle. They always do; she has the rapport down to a fine art. You have five minutes. For a photo, for a memory, for proof.

I seek something more real, the genuine experience, it’s what all we travellers want. It’s not about ticking boxes or taking photos. It’s about something less tangible, an experience, a feeling. We understand each other, us travellers. I’ll be boiling some pasta in a hostel kitchen, and will hear the same conversation I’ve heard dozens of times before. About how touristy the world has become, about the people paying a small fortune to be shuttled about a country as if they were in a theme park, about people who aren’t interested in learning about another culture except through a piece of glass in air-conditioned comfort. We know that what we get out of travelling is better, cooler and more real. You’ve got to go to Macchu Picchu man, it’s bloody incredible. I know, I went last year, how amazing was it?

There are so many of us. Sometimes when I look up from my guidebook, I’ll see them walking around with their heads in the same edition, with the same kitsch cover art, guiding us all to the same untouched destinations. I move from hostel to hostel, from one ‘must-experience’ destination to the next, and keep seeing the same faces. I can’t believe we missed each other in that hostel in Berlin, we will say. Did you go to the Checkpoint Charlie museum?

We are so many, us not-just-another-travellers, that we are a market. Corporations move in and corner the market, set-up chains of alternative-hostels, strike deals with alternative-travel companies, to shuttle alternative travellers to alternative destinations. The genuine experience is for sale. There it is on a platter, packaged up in bundles of the real deal.

I walk from the hostel. I need time-out. I find a café that is all mine, where I can just for a second be like a native. I order in German and everything, the girl who serves me is nice, she answers slowly in German even though she speaks English like a native. But as I sit down to enjoy it, I hear English coming from another table. It’s that same conversation again, about this very café. They’ve found it too- the genuine experience. They’re drinking it up in little cups.

How did this happen? When did I become a commodity, a target market, a demographic? When did we, this mass of ‘I’m-not-a-tourist’s become the tourism industry? I don’t want to be a tourist. I want to be something else. A traveller. An adventurer? But the words feel empty, and I can’t avoid the fact that a tourist by any other name would smell as bad.

Our new Australian writer, Simon Rashleigh, talks of the hellish experience that we all have to suffer with international travel: surviving the airport.

I’m quite bad at airports really.  Every time I have to go through a metal detector for example (and I seem to somehow manage to go through three or four per airport), I inevitably hold up everybody else with the whole process of emptying the thousand loose coins, keys and other assorted rubbish that have accumulated in my pockets over the previous weeks.  And despite my best efforts, I always set the machine off beeping.  They wave their magic wand over me, and I discover some hidden pocket that I had forgotten about (so that’s where my phone was!)  Usually by about the 4^th pass, I’m clean, and it takes a lot less time to collect everything from the little plastic tray because in the process they have confiscated the water bottle I was going to use either to quench my thirst or to blow up the plane, and my nail-clippers (We fly to Libya now or your little friend here loses her toenail!).

Then there’s the whole departure cards thing.  I never manage to fill them out completely and correctly (again holding up the people behind me). And besides, I have a moral objection to the information collection that’s going on.  For example, if I tell the Australian authorities that I expect to be out of the country for 6 months, do they come looking for me if I stay away longer? 

-Mr Prime-Minister, I’m worried about Mr Rashleigh, it’s now been 6 months and 3 days, and he still hasn’t returned to Australia.

-Yes, that is very worrying.  Where did he expect to spend most of his time while overseas? 

-According to the card, Norway sir. 

-Right, then we begin the search there.

So I don’t know about you but I don’t take these cards very seriously.  A few years ago I got a chuckle out of the customs officer (pretty impressive eh?) when I wrote for my usual occupation “Rock-Star”.  But this time I decided to be more honest, and simply wrote “professional busker”.  Not even a smile.

I’m usually quite relieved to make it through the whole customs/security process.  That is until I realize I’m in an airport, and that now I can’t get out.  There’s really nothing to do in an airport apart from shop, and I hate shopping.  I could read my John Grisham novel if the security guy hadn’t got a paper cut and taken it away. So I usually just walk around for an hour and a half and wonder why I had to check in two hours before departure time.  This makes me angry.  And I start to get angry at the whole world and at the terrorists.  If only they had a proper global economy, then there wouldn’t be any need for customs regulations.  And why can’t they just win the war on terror already? Then I’d have my book to read, and I wouldn’t have to empty my pockets anymore, and we could all just turn up at the airport and walk onto the plane.  Next time, I tell myself, I will arrive 10 minutes before departure, with empty pockets and my nail clippers in my checked-baggage!  That will show them. 

I won’t of course.  But such whimsical fantasies are my form of airport entertainment.  By the time I’m done cursing al-quaeda, the US government, world paranoia, homogenous airport design, smoking bans and been to the toilet once or twice, I see that my flight is on last-call. I make my way with a smile on my face to Gate 3 and to free beer.  I don’t like airports, but I don’t mind planes.

by Cynthia Goldman 

As only my second time in Europe, I came to Madrid with little to no expectations. Sure, I had lived in New York City for a summer and even Mexico City (my mother´s native city) but it would be difficult to compare such a European city like Madrid to anywhere I had been before.

My first observation would be the obvious mix of the old with the new. Walking around El Retiro (the Spanish equivalent to Central Park except this park used to be the royal gardens) on a Saturday afternoon, its easy to notice trendy Spanish couples walking their dogs, break dancers jumping next to old historical European monuments, elder people lounging on benches eating gelato and little kids playing with boats. Surrounding the old statues and beautiful gardens are bars, restaurants and shops, even fast food chains like McDonalds!

Despite the temptation of a Big Mac, I was excited to try the healthy Mediterranean diet once I got to Spain. I’m originally from Kansas City, famous for its barbecues and steaks and with my Mexican background, I love spices and anything drenched in lime with lots of flavour! But to my dismay, I found the food to be boring and not as nutritious with the exception of paella, chorizo and mixed salads (with olives, tuna, oil and vinegar). Everything else? Bread, meat, potatoes, potatoes, potatoes… and mayo! For all the skinny Spanish women walking around, I was shocked. Perhaps that’s why friends in the past who came back from studying abroad gained an additional “freshman 15″ (as in pounds). They either ate the potatoes and mayo or resorted back to the Big Mac.

Another culprit for the mysterious “freshman 15″ could be the crazy Spanish nightlife. Bars and discotecas often close at 7am! And with all the dancing and drinking, people get hungry. My favorite nights so far have ended with churros and hot chocolate at a chocolatería conveniently located next to Palacio and Joy.

Something you can’t find in North America is the futbol! Or soccer for Americans. I have watched two teams play so far- FC Barcelona and Real Madrid. Although both games were equally amazing experiences, I’m quickly becoming a Real Madrid fanatic. The action, energy, and cute soccer players with talent playing for one of the best teams in Europe (did I mention my great grandfather was madrileño?)… what’s not to love?

For anyone who loves art and royal history like me, Madrid is heaven! I’m taking a Modern Arts of Spain course at school where I study Goya, Velázquez, Dalí, among others. Once we finish studying their work in class, we just hop on a metro and go to any one of the art musuems and see the real things! Not to mention, Madrid is a masterpiece in itself with its old architecture and monuments unlike anything I’ve ever seen back home.

The Spanish are very lucky to have a lifestyle where they can enjoy all of their perks, although it may be annoying to Americans. In America, everything is ‘go, go, go!’ In Spain, businesses usually open at 10, close from 2 to 4 for siesta, and either stay closed or reopen till 8 or so. Servers take longer to serve food at restaurants and cafes because dining is seen as a pleasant pastime. Light a cigarette (which MOST do), sip on a cafe con leche and chat with a friend: it seems that sometimes there are just no worries.

This weekend I’m planning on shopping and going to the Rastro, which I have yet to go to. I can’t wait to check out boots and palestina scarves! And who knows what other surprises I’ll find.

If you can get by all the smoking, bland food, annoying hours and rude people (although my Spanish teacher insists it’s part of the culture- the Spanish are simply upfront), Madrid is an amazing place to live. When I leave Madrid in May, I can honestly say that I have learned and experienced so much. In a nutshell, I’d say Madrid is a mix between Mexico City and New York City but with that extra European flair that made me fall in love with the city.

By Helen Macrae

When I arrive in Madrid at the beginning of January, accompanied by a suitcase the size of a small planet and my mate H (and her slightly smaller suitcase), I’m looking forward to settling into the rhythm of Madrileño life. After a strenuous first week of sightseeing, and in order to take advantage of the fact work hasn’t yet started, we decide to reward ourselves with a Big Saturday Night Out and dust off our heels, make-up and pet hairpiece (he’s called Steve). As we trip out the door, we are confident of a brilliant night out…after all, we’ve both lived in Spain before, we know how to find the best places, we know when things happen, we know what’s what.

How wrong we are.

Our first, and perhaps most fundamental mistake, is leaving the flat at 9.30pm, about 4 hours too early. Having no dinner and necking a load of cheap red wine probably doesn’t help matters much either. When we arrive at our first bar-shaped destination, in typical Brit fashion we guzzle our drinks far too quickly and polish off all the free snacks in about five seconds flat, watched in disgust by the Spanish couple sitting opposite us, who are clearly having far too deep and meaningful a conversation to have eaten more than a few morsels. After contemplating stealing their food too but deciding against it, we leave the bar feeling ever-so-slightly sick, and begin prowling the streets for free alcohol. Normally we seem to be inundated with offers of free shots and promo people waving flyers at us, but since it’s so early they aren’t interested and instead stand around chatting, preferring to save themselves for later when the crowds come out and the real work begins.

Disappointed by the lack of interest, we take refuge in a nearby bar, but realise only too late that it is for pijos with drinks prices to match. Sipping our expensive-yet-disgusting wine, we take stock of the place and realise we have to get out of there, and fast, so we stumble out and into another bar where we are plied with a free cocktail that tastes suspiciously non-alcoholic. When I trip over a concrete bollard shortly after exiting this latest establishment, I’m ready to end it all there, but thinking quickly, H drags me into an Irish bar, where there’s a band playing live music, and we find a man smoking a pipe, possibly the highlight of the night so far. We start to get into the swing of things until we are charged for our drinks and realise we can’t afford to stay for another one as they are so expensive, so we leave shortly afterwards and attempt (unsuccessfully) to wangle more free alcohol from anyone and everyone we meet in the street.

By now we have been out for several hours, and the prolonged drinking is taking its toll on us physically as well as on our purses. In a last ditch effort we head over to Joy Eslava, lured in by the promise of free entry and fun times, but when we get there the place is dead (it’s just too early) and we can’t sit down anywhere as all the empty tables have been reserved, so we leave after spending a grand total of ten minutes in there, much to the confusion of the staff on the door. Hunger has now kicked in so we give up on the drinking and go on the hunt for food. Much to our dismay, the only place that seems to be open is McDonalds, but after a couple of seconds grappling with our respective consciences, we head in and settle down to enjoy our Happy Meals in peace. But no, we are not to be granted even this one small indulgence, as the security guard bears down on us and informs us that McDonalds is closing and could we please get out right now. Humiliated, dejected, exhausted and feeling rather sick after downing a Happy Meal at the speed of light, we finally give up and trudge home. As we head out of the city centre, in the opposite direction stream hundreds of Madrileños, chatting, exuberant and fresh, just about to start their night out.

I think we’ll do it their way next time.

By Maja Gojkovic

Opening the newspaper this morning i came across an interesting article regarding the new AVE train. This is the new high speed train that will run direct from Madrid to Barcelona. The newspaper sent two reporters to compare the time it would take for the journey to be done on the new train service and on a plane.

Both of the reporters left from Puerta de Alcala at 5.30 am and both catching a taxi without a problem. One reporter headed for Atocha where the high speed train will be departing from with the taxi journey costing him only 3 euros. The other reporter made his way to the airport and although without traffic the journey only took 20 minutes the journey cost him 25,25 euros.

On arrival to Atocha the reporter made his way through security taking him only 2minutes whereas over at the airport checking in and security checks took around 15 minutes. Once on the train if you are in tourist class you will not be served breakfast but you can make use of the on board Cafe where you can choose from a variey of services such as purchasing a variety of hot and cold drinks as well as snacks. By 7.30 am the train has made its way through Cataluna and is well on its way to Barcelona. The train arrived into Barcelona 10 minutes earlier than expected. The reporter caught a cab into the centre of Barcelona arriving at Sants by 8.55 am. Meanwhile the reporter travelling by plane arrived also before schedule and caught a taxi into the city and arrived at 8.30 am.

Looking at the time differences between the services there is not a massive difference (15 minutes) but taking the plane means the service does arrive earlier than the jorney made on the AVE train.

Both services have there advantages and disadvantages. For example you can catch a taxi into Atocha station and you are travelling by the AVE train, it is cheaper to catch a taxi from somewhere in the city than to the airport which is on the outskirts. The airline service have at least three scheduled daily flights that fly to Barcelona and arrive by 9 am whereas there is only one AVE train that leaves from Madrid at 6 am and arrives in Barcelona at 8.43 per day.

Another disadvantage of taking the plane is that the costs are much higher, early morning flights are normally more expensive than other time slots during that day therefore for regular commuters from Madrid to Barcelona and that may be wondering which service to choose from , the AVE train is more cost efficient.

We have given you the facts now you make up your minds on what you think is the better mode of transport and which in future you might be more likely to use.

Las Fallas is undoubtedly one of the most unique and crazy festivals in Spain (a country known for unique and crazy festivals). What started as a feast day for St. Joseph, the patron saint of carpenters, has evolved into a 5-day, multifaceted celebration of fire. Valencia is usually a quiet city with a population of a half-million, but the town swells to an estimated three million flame-loving revellers during Las Fallas.

Las Fallas literally means “the fires” in Valencian. The focus of the fiesta is the creation and destruction of ninots–huge cardboard, wood and plaster statues–that are placed at over 350 key intersections and parks around the city today. The ninots are extremely lifelike and usually depict bawdy, satirical scenes and current events (lampooning corrupt politicians and Spanish celebrities is particularly popular). They are crafted by neighbourhood organizations and take about six months to construct (and often cost upwards of US$75,000). Many ninots are several stories tall and need to be moved into position with cranes.

The ninots remain in place until March 19th, the day known as “La Crema.” Starting in the early evening, young men with axes chop holes in the statues and stuff them with fireworks. The crowds start to chant, the streetlights are turned off, and all of the ninots are set on fire at exactly the stroke of midnight. Over the years, the local firemen, called “bomberos,” have devised unique ways to protect the town’s buildings from torching along with the ninots, such as by neatly covering storefronts with fireproof tarps. And each year, one of the ninots is spared from destruction by popular vote and exhibited in the local Museum of the Ninot along with the other favourites from years past.
Each neighbourhood of the city has an organized group of people, the Casal faller, that works all year long holding fundraising parties and dinners, usually featuring the famous speciality paella. Each casal faller produces a construction known as a falla which is eventually burnt. A casal faller is also known as a comisión fallera.
Formerly, much time would also be spent at the Casal Faller preparing the ninots (Valencian for puppets or dolls). During the week leading up to 19 March, each group takes its ninot out for a grand parade, and then mounts it, each on its own elaborate firecracker-filled cardboard and papier-mâché artistic monument in a street of the given neighborhood. This whole assembly is a falla.
The ninots and their falles are developed according to an agreed upon theme that was, and continues to be a satirical jab at anything or anyone unlucky enough to draw the attention of the critical eyes of the fallers - the celebrants themselves. In modern times, the whole two week long
festival has spawned a huge local industry, to the point that an entire suburban area has been designated the City of Falles - Ciutat fallera. Here, crews of artists and artisans, sculptors, painters, and many others all spend months producing elaborate constructions, richly absurd paper and wax, wood and styrofoam tableaux towering up to five stories, composed of fanciful figures in outrageous poses arranged in gravity-defying architecture, each produced at the direction of the many individual neighbourhood Casals faller who view with each to attract the best artists, and then to create the most outrageous monument to their target. There are more than 500 different falles in Valencia, including those of other towns in the region of Valencia.
During Falles, many people from their casal faller dress in the regional costumes from different eras of Valencia’s history - the fife a flute and drum are frequently heard, as most of the different casals fallers have their own traditional bands.
Although the Falles are a very traditional event and many participants dress in medieval clothing, the ninots for 2005 included such modern characters as Shrek and George W. Bush.
The origin of Las Fallas is a bit murky, but most credit the fires as an evolution of pagan rituals that celebrated the onset of spring and the planting season. In the sixteenth century, Valencia used streetlights only during the longer nights of winter. The street lamps were hung on wooden structures, called parots, and as the days became longer the now-unneeded parots were ceremoniously burned on St. Joseph’s Day. Even today the fiesta has retained its satirical and working-class roots, and the well-to-do and faint-of-heart of Valencia often ditch out of town for Las Fallas.

Besides the burning of the ninots, there is a myriad of other activities during the fiesta. During the day, you can check out the extensive roster of bullfights, parades, paella contests and beauty pageants around the city. Spontaneous fireworks displays occur everywhere during the days leading up to “La Crema”, but another highlight is the daily mascletá the pyrotechnics spectacle which occurs in the Plaza Anyuntamiento at exactly 2pm. When the huge pile of firecrackers is ignited, the ground literally shakes for the next ten minutes.

Experience Las Falles in Valencia with European Vibe on Wednesday 19th March

This is a fantastic opportunity to take in the wonder that is Las Falles (La Fallas) in Valencia. Our trip gets you to Valencia by private coach before being taken to the best place to see all the action then head back to Madrid after “la Crema”

DAY & EVENING TRIP For only 39 Euros (tax incl.) per person

TRIP INCLUDES:

RETURN PRIVATE COACH JOURNEY
ESCORTED GUIDE
TOURIST INSURANCE

Limited places available

DO NOT MISS THESE GREAT OFFERS! - BOOK NOW - CALL 91 549 7711
OR VISIT OUR OFFICE IN FERNANDO EL CATOLICO 63, LOCAL 1 Metro: MONCLOA

by Chris Read

Only two months late - not bad for Spain! The new high speed AVE rail service between Madrid and Barcelona will open to passengers on 20th February, the day before the electoral campaign officially starts for the national poll on 9th March, and two months after the originally-planned inauguration date, 21st December last year. The Development Minister, Magdalena Álvarez, gave the news after a meeting in Barcelona on Tuesday with the President of the Generalitat de Cataluña, José Montilla.

Tickets will be available to by from the 14th Feb via the Renfe website, with further details and pricing coming out soon.

The first AVE high speed pulled up into Barcelona’s Sants station last Friday morning as part of testing on the new line. It was an eight-wagon Siemens S-103, the train which will be in service on the route.