Emmaprovement Continues...

Taryn emails me Tuesday saying she's booked weekend flights for Barcelona. There's a tradeshow, Bread & Butter, which she wants to check out.

"Can we go to Maremagnum?", I ask. Maremagnum is basically my favourite place on earth, a huge bar complex on an island in the Barcelona wharf, where all the ex-pats, English teachers, and students learning Spanish used to congregate when the other bars close at 3am.

"Not a chance," she answers swiftly. Philistine, I think. It's not until we are on the flight that we realise it's been ten years since we've been in Barcelona together. On our Gap year, we intended to backpack around Europe, but arrived in Barcelona and thought: screw that. Backpacking, as you'd imagine, not being my thing. I had to actually go out and buy high-heeled boots my first week in Spain as the 'sensible' trainer-like shoes I bought for especially for travelling gave me blisters. I'd never worn flat shoes in my life.

The subsequent nine months can only be described as pure bliss, though we didn't realise it then. Taryn worked a number of jobs. I was supposed to write a novel, or at least teach English, but that was near impossible as I was so busy: drinking our homemade concoction of 'sangria' (Fanta and two peseta per liter red wine), raping Zara of everything that could fit me, getting my bag repeatedly stolen, emailing boys from home (Hotmail had just been invented) and touring Barcelona's finest dancing establishment. Taryn and I did eventually travel, but we always came back to Barcelona.

But, this time, we're here to work, at least for the first day. From the airport, we go straight to Bread & Butter. I'm amazed at the sheer size of it. Even though I was once a trade show editor, Bread & Butter is something to behold. A whole village set up for the weekend with bars, restaurants, and art galleries - and possibly the most attractive people - over 90,000 of them - to have ever gathered in one place. So this is where the (straight) boys of fashion congregate.

For those who don't know, Bread & Butter was established in Berlin, and quickly became the place to show your denim, streetwear and emerging labels. Consequently, it also became one of the biggest weeklong parties, as fashionistas and media whores descended on the city. Barcelona was added as a satellite venue, but has now replaced the German capital as main host city.

It's all a bit overwhelming, really. But we manage to take some of the bigger labels in ­ stopping at Levi's to see the new line of vintage remakes, which makes me seriously consider wearing jeans again. Other good collections included Kersh, A Cuckoo Moment jewellery, Etxart Panno's dresses and obviously, Paris Hilton's fabulous collection of handbags and accessories. We like to support reformed criminals. But there is literally over a thousand brands on display.

While everyone is here for the clothes, we can't help but hear about the parties. On Thursday night, we missed the VICE party but the extravagant Custo party on Montjuïc made up for it. Yet we rallied the stamina to stop by the Hugo Boss party Friday night. Held in a bullring, it put London fashion parties to shame. There must have been a thousand people gathered in the huge open-air bullring, lit only by fluorescent martini glasses. By midnight, when we arrive, everyone is dancing on the tables and chairs.

Euros really take their partying seriously ­ it seemed bad form to do what we usually do at fashion parties: cower in a corner and bitch about people's outfits. Also, it seems the DJ has secretly commandeered my iPod, playing some of the most gloriously cheesy music. Prince followed Beyoncé, then Kanye West and then ­ to my absolute delight ­ they piped in Journey's Don't Stop Believin'. Taryn and the UJ team abandon the dance floor in sheer horror. I dance and sing along to all the words with some Swedish gays that also, clearly, have a soft spot for 80s ballads.

Capitalising on the copious amount of free booze and our inability to ever call it a night, especially in Barcelona, I finally coerce Taryn to go to Maremagnum. I can see she's getting a little nostalgic for those steamy nights of our youth, when we danced all night, then walked home by the sunrise, carrying our shoes.

So we hail a cab, and speed down to the harbour. All I care about is the salsa bars on the ground floor, as I was pretty excited to dance with the salsa men again. I actually bolted out of the taxi, not noticing the lack of crowds milling outside. Inside, it started to dawn on us. Something was wrong ­ where were the people? At first, I thought we might just be lost, and ran around the mall, looking for the bars. But eventually, I had to face it - Maremagnum was gone.