Reading the original blog this book is culled from felt like a participatory experience; we lived the dream vicariously. In retrospect (a 'spect that this tome is practically a eulogy to) this was almost as self-delusionary as some of Andrew's own hopes of going native. He did live the dream for us, but like any escapist dream you'll generally find you're never going to arrive at a final destination, and the journey may well shatter a few illusions.
Its clarion cry 'travelling is shit' opening sets the tone for a narrative that is as naïve as it is cynical; as triumphant as it is defeatist. Much of this can be shared because of the timing of Andrew's first stint in Barcelona - the War in Iraq. He describes demonstrations as you remember seeing them; describes them with the conviction that they were having an effect, just as we did (watching them on News24). Now, as the BBC is chided for not waving the flag high enough, as Iraq descends further into chaos and civil war, and as George and Tony continue to grin at us from their thrones, we know what Gulf War II was - a Vietnam Cram session, a Study Guide for the cynicism we forgot during the school holidays.
This book has all the humour, drole enthusiasm and literary chutzpah of the original blog. But it has accidentally become a memorial for revolution as much as it is an entertaining travelogue.