What It Takes to Lead A Pub Crawl

It started with a border run at seventeen. Northern Alberta native Daniella Sanderson and her friends packed into a small car and drove just outside the U.S.-Canada border, rehearsing their story for the customs agent. “We’re just going to Havre for some shopping,” she remembers saying, her heart pounding as they rolled up to the booth. In reality, their plan was much riskier: sneak across the border, stock up on cheap American alcohol, and smuggle it back for a big high school party.

The plan flopped—spectacularly.

The border guard, unamused by their nervous smiles and unimportant details, pulled them aside. Within minutes, their car had been searched, their IDs multiple times, and their so-called shopping trip had come crashing down.

“They saw right through us,” Sanderson says now, laughing as she sips her mojito — her drink of choice. “But if I’m really drinking, it would be an espresso martini,” she adds. “We had to do the walk of shame driving back into Canada, completely empty-handed.”

At the time, it felt like the ultimate rebellion. That night, she swore she’d never experience a scarier or riskier night out. She had no idea that nearly fifteen years later, she’d be the one orchestrating nights out—only this time, it would be completely legal.

By day, Sanderson is an art student, quietly sketching and painting in Valencia’s sun-drenched cafes. She usually prefers a quiet morning by the beach at her go-to cafe La Mas Bonita, sipping her cafe con leche with a sketchbook in her hand.

By night, she transforms into one of the most charismatic bar crawl guides the city has to offer, leading hundreds of eager tourists and students through the neon-lit streets of Valencia, introducing and pointing out hidden speakeasies, dive bars, and clubs that pulse with techno music until sunrise.

She’s been in Spain for three years now, and to her, it feels more like home than Canada ever did.

“At this point, I feel more Spanish than Canadian,” she says. “I think in Spanish, I talk in Spanish, and honestly? I don’t even know what’s going on in Canada anymore.”

Her job isn’t just about taking people to bars. It’s about setting a mood, keeping the energy at an all-time high, and making sure everyone, whether they arrived alone or in a group, feels like they belong.

“It feels like she is everyone’s cool big sister, just by the way she leads and makes sure everyone is having fun and being safe,” says Ashley Herrig, a fellow tourist on one of her crawls.“And Daniella is really, really good at it.”

But does she ever get a break from it?

“I do about three tours a week, mostly on the weekends,” Sanderson explains. “It also very much depends on the season. Summer? Almost every night other than Monday or Tuesday. Winter? I actually get to sleep like a normal person.”

Her usual wake-up time? “10 a.m. if I am lucky, but if I had a fun group the night before, usually closer to 2.”

The night always starts in the same spot: Youth Hostel near the center market, under the glow of Valencia’s cathedral lights. It’s 10 p.m., and Daniella stands at the center of a growing crowd, wearing a fun hat, usually red or electric blue, so no one loses her in the chaos of the night that lies ahead. She claps and waves her hands, getting everyone’s attention.

“Alright, listen up! If you wander off, I’m not hunting you down,” she jokes, flashing a playful smirk. “If you get lost, just head back to the last bar we were at—or yell my name at the top of your lungs.”

The group laughs, already loosening up.

The first bar is always a warm-up: cheap beers, sangria, maybe a few rounds of tequila or vodka-based shots. She introduces everyone and gets them to all break the ice while getting people to talk with one another. She is skilled at finding the shy ones and pulling them into the conversation.

“She has this way of making strangers connect and have fun like best friends,” says Logan Givens, an American man who met his girlfriend on one of Daniella’s crawls three years ago. “I don’t even remember half of that night, but I remember how involved the guide was while also being introduced to my now girlfriend.”

By midnight, the group is buzzing with noise and energy in between the second and third bar. Sanderson leads them through the busy streets of El Carmen, dodging bikers past late-night food vendors selling empanadas. The next bar is more alive with louder music, more fun drinks, and a full dance floor.

This is where Sanderson is at her best. If someone looks lost? She swoops in with a joke and pulls them into the group. If a cluster is too closed off? She’ll introduce a drinking game.

“She’s like our captain and team leader, and we’re all just following her rhythm and moves,” says Conor Beswick, a British student who was on one of her tours recently. “The whole night feels effortless and relaxing, knowing you don’t have to plan everything. After the night, you realize how much work she’s putting in to make it that way.”

By 3 a.m. every night, the final stop is always one of the local clubs. The 30-person group stumbles in, wide smiles with flashing lights and pounding music. As the night winds down, Sanderson shifts from the guide to the guardian. She steers the drunks toward cabs with a knowing smile — “You’ll thank me in the morning” —and steps in fast when trouble looms. For her, the night isn’t over until everyone’s safe and on their way home.

To outsiders, it might seem like Sanderson’s life is a nonstop big party. But what they aren’t seeing are the long hours, the exhausting energy, and the unpredictable income. Some nights, there are hundreds in tips, and it is amazing. Other nights, she can barely cover her expenses for rent and school. And then there are bad nights.

“The worst group I ever had? A bachelor party from Liverpool. Within the first hour, the groom was puking all over himself, another had lost his phone, and the rest were arguing over who was more drunk. I had to ask them to stay at the second bar.”

The most boring group?

“A group of tech consultants from Denver. Lovely guys, but they drank as if they were at a corporate networking event. Not a whole lot of dancing and singing, just mostly politely nodding their heads and beer sipping.” She pauses while shaking her head. “People think this job is just drinking for a living, and living carefree. But it’s psychological. You’re managing so many different personalities, keeping people entertained, while on top of making sure everyone’s safe. It’s work.”

Still, she wouldn’t trade it.

“People come on these crawls thinking they’re just going to have a few drinks,” she says. “But what they don’t realize is that they’re stepping into a new story. And I get to help write it for everyone.”

Over time, Sanderson has developed a unique perspective on human nature.

“People show who they really are when they drink,” she explains. “You see everything behind the scenes—the flirting, the heartbreaks, everybody’s insecurities, the high egos. And, sometimes, you see real connections forming.”

She’s noticed many cultural differences, too.

“Americans? They love to tip, therefore I love them, but they can’t drink like Europeans. Germans? They’re very disciplined drinkers. Brits? Absolute chaos, but in the most fun way possible,” she laughs.

Her favorite nights?

“The quieter ones. The smaller groups that come in alone and click with one another. Where you sit on a rooftop at 5 a.m., laughing about the night, awaiting the sunrise.”

By 4:30 a.m., the night is almost over. Sanderson sits outside a kebab shop, with her shoes dangling from one hand, a shwarma wrap in the other. Around her, a handful of stragglers from the crawl are laughing over their sip of vodka sodas. Her voice is highly raspy from shouting over the music all night, and her feet are swollen, but she’s still buzzing with the night’s energy.

“I love this city,” she murmured, tilting her head back to look at the starlit sky. “And I love this life.”