It was close to midnight. I was settling down to spend the night on a hard plastic seat at the Barcelona train station. The Eurorail ride had been long, starting from Venice the previous morning ending in Spain 36 hours later. I had slept through most of Italy, changed a couple of trains in France, arriving in Barcelona just after 11 p.m.

So here I was, on my first solo-backpacking trip across Europe, too old for the massive discounts for the under-26, not old enough to splurge on cabs and fancy hotels. I hadn&rsquot bothered with any bookings (who books on a backpacking trip anyway) but I had arranged for a friend of a friend to pick me up at the station. The only problem was I&rsquod ended up arriving a night earlier than expected. So after spending many euros on phone calls, I stopped trying to reach him and figured I might as well give in to the adventure. Thus the plastic seat.

Just as I was beginning to write a postcard, an announcement blared the station would close till 6 a.m and everyone had to leave. A guard, accompanied by a dog, started to shoo people out. This wasn&rsquot India &mdash you couldn&rsquot plead with officials to bend the rules a bit. So a motley crew &mdash one drunk, a Spanish woman with an infant, a group of five American students and I &mdash were unceremoniously thrown out. The woman managed to get back in (pleading in the right language obviously helped) and the students (who could happily split the cab fare) scooted off. That left me and the lush. Cosy.

I started walking. It was past 1 a.m. Caf&eacutes were shutting down, the lights dimmed and there was no sign of a single hotel. My backpack felt heavy, I was tired, alone and, let&rsquos admit it, a little panicked. This wasn&rsquot New York but my chances of getting mugged and thrown in a ditch were reasonably high. After a bit of aimless walking, I gave up, turned towards the station again, to see my drunk friend sprawled against a lamppost. At least I had company.

Then, I saw a woman striding, head down, in my direction. Thank God for instinct, that glorious thing we all possess but don&rsquot always trust. I stopped her and after some minutes of broken English, tattered Spanish and my press card (desperate measures), Lucia Bergos Naranjo looked at my teary eyes and said, &ldquoOkay, you come home with me.&rdquo

We&rsquove all been told as children never talk to strangers. I could have been a serial killer, but Lucia trusted me like I trusted her. Off we went, dragging my backpack across Barcelona. Some 45 minutes and four flights of stairs later, we reached Lucia&rsquos pad. The first thing she did was show me pictures of her two roommates, their parents, her own parents, their friends and her boyfriend.

Then we sat down with a Spanish-English dictionary and began to swap recipes for fish curry. Through our slow but animated conversation, I learned that she was a psychology student and worked evenings at a café. She was one of the warmest people I had met, one of the most spirited and genuine. We talked till four in the morning and I told her things I had not admitted to my closest friends. I spent my first night in Barcelona on her couch, well fed, safe and happy.

The next morning Lucia managed to reach my friend, who was horrified with the story and came straight away to fetch me. I was handed over, in one piece. I roamed the rest of the week and took in the sights and smells of the chaotic La Rambla.

I met Lucia again before leaving &mdash a relaxed afternoon this time. We walked everywhere and she took me to her favourite places in Barcelona. We talked non-stop. She told me how much she loved her hometown, where she had met her boyfriend and what she wanted to wear at her wedding. Her English though was better than my Spanish I had to enact most of my part of the conversation, including a mime of the &lsquosaat pheras&rsquo at a Hindu wedding, which prompted peals of laughter.

She gifted me a Gaudi bookmark, helped me shop for olive oil and then took me back to the station. I had an hour to wait and Lucia insisted on waiting with me. I kept telling her to carry on but she wouldn&rsquot listen &ldquoYou...alone...coming here, not alone going.&rdquo

I took back from Spain a friend for life. I sent her cushion covers and crinkled skirts and long emails with pictures we took at the station. But I still don&rsquot know how to thank her for the night she took me into her home. I don&rsquot think I ever will.