Our hop off a moving train in Valencia

We saw the Alhambra, built by the Muslims who ruled Spain and added to by a Christian king. By religious law, the Muslims aren´t allowed to paint or sculpt idols, so the art in the Alhambra is mostly related to geometry. And damn, they were good at geometry.
By coincidence, a girl named Isobel who I met in the Malaga hostel was living in a house right next to my hostel. She came along to the Granada, and she and I chilled and explored the city for the rest of the time in Granada.
We met a lot of people in Granada, actually, mostly at the Makuto Guesthouse (the wonderful hostel in Granada with hammocks and crepes in the morning). There were Jack and Ruby, a couple (going strong after 2 years!) from Britain, Deb, a sassy Southern bell, Carmen, a woman from Barcelona who we all fell in love with, Mel, the witty, brilliant, lesbian filmmaker from South Carolina, Korea, and Estonia, Tracy, from Calgary, which apparently is the Texas of Canada due to the high concentration of cowboys, beef, and oil, and Antee, a guy from Finland who doesn´t say much but sings a passionate Finnish anthem.
I went on a motorcycle scooter tour led by the hostel´s owner´s husband, learning how to ride and hitting 50 kph in the same day. Riding a motorcycle is one of the more exhilarating things you can do. It feels like you´re gliding, almost like skiing.
All in all, I fell in love with Granada: the tiny cobblestone streets through which no cars can drive, the plazas where musicians bang drums and pull accordions, the ancient-looking houses and buildings, the colorful bazaars that dot the roads, even the beautiful graffiti on the walls. But after three days, our time was up, and we were off to Valencia.

These trains don´t get any easier. Due to shoddy planning, we took a night train. We decided that instead of sleeping on the night train, as normal people might, we would spend the travel time partying and sleep at the hostel.
The train ride consisted of eating, an intense game of hearts we played with two Canadian girls named Kirsten and Beatrice, and a little sleeping. Until we hit the first of two Valencia stations, it was largely uneventful.
We rolled into Valencia about 30 minutes late (5;30 a.m.). The train stopped. We walked to the front of the car, and the guy in front of us opened the door. He left the train, and we followed. John stepped off, and the train started rolling forward. I was baffled. Was the train fine-tuning? Was it a parallel-parking train? It was picking up speed, though. I jumped off. Sam came a second later. At that moment, I realized two things. The train was leaving, and we were the only people who had gotten off.
¨Get back on,¨I yelled to Sam.
¨No, stay here,¨John yelled.
Sam stutter-stepped, but it didn´t matter. The train was gone.
The guy we had followed turned out to be an American from Newport Beach, as clueless as we were. It all worked out, though. We took a cheap taxi to the hostel and slept.
I woke up around one in the afternoon. In my boxers, I took in the Valencia scene from the balcony. I looked to my left, and saw another shirtless guy on his room´s balcony. His name was James.
¨Yeah, I got in at five on a train from Granada,¨I said. ¨You just wake up too?¨
¨Yeah, I got in around six or seven from clubbing,¨he said. ¨Late night.¨
I bet. Before I went to bed, I saw him hooking up with another guy near a bar down the street.