Chill’n out in Gandia

We drank sangria and learned that nightlife only gets going after midnight in Spain.

The nightclub was practically empty at 11:00 pm, but the music was loud.

🎵 Don’t go, don’t goooo, don’t go away… I’m begging you to stay…

The club was a short walk down the beach from our beachfront youth hostel on Playa Piles. On another night, we watched the sunset and made a fire by the beach with the other travellers staying at the hostel. We were all there for the same reason.

A beach holiday within our holiday. After three weeks of checking off European cities (12 in total!) and three sleepless overnight train trips, we needed a break. We were 18, but still human.

Gandia was perfect. The sun was hot, the ocean sparkled. Sightseeing involved wandering through orange groves, basking in the wonderingly aromatic air. The oranges were sweet and juicy. We exchanged travel stories with other backpackers. I added Morocco to my list of places to visit.

Beach. Check. Sunshine. Check. Vitamin C. Check. And we departed with a new friend (Carolyn) who travelled with us for the next few days through Spain (Valencia and Barcelona). It was just what we needed.

By the time we left the nightclub at 2:00 am, it was more crowded, but the dance music was the same.

🎵 Please don’t go, please don’t go, please don’t go ….

The effects of Gandia were long lasting. I had that song in my head for weeks.

This is one entry from my 1992 European backpacking trip with my friend Sarah. If you want to start at the beginning, please check out The journey starts in Nice.