Barcelona – Part Tres
Having spent several days in Spain sampling the food, we were sad that it was a little hit and miss; I had a phenomenal meal of stewed rabbit in vegetable chili sauce, but some of the other dishes were just not that appetizing. In defense of Spain, however, I should probably say that our experience with the food was partly the product of having spent the last year in the continual state of ‘trying new things.’ One of the things we miss most about the states is the food, and while we would typically be more than ready to try a few new things while travelling, for some reason we both felt a little burned out on new experiences… what we really longed for was Biscuits & Gravy, Barbecue, and real milkshakes… enter the Hard Rock Cafe, Barcelona.
That’s right folks, after passing by the Hard Rock several times while touring the city, on our last night in Barcelona, we decided to give up on the new stuff and satisfy our deep craving for the familiar. Best.Idea.Ever. Candice had an epic face-melting burger… and I had the most legendary full-on rack of ribs ever. And we ate the whole meal while listening to Jimi Hendrix, Stone Temple Pilots, and the Rolling Stones (to name a few).
We slept like babies that night, and awoke the next morning ready for our last day in Barcelona before catching a late evening flight back to London. As we were packing up our bags, I had Barcelona Freak Out #2 (see Part Uno for Freak Out #1).
We had a nice relaxing beach day planned, and as we collected our various things from our room, I realized that I hadn’t seen my passport in several days. No problem, I set out looking for it, thinking it would be hiding in the next pocket or drawer. Then it hit me. You know how when you’re looking for something, you sometimes get a flash of an image in your mind with the thing you’re looking for in this or that place; that’s what happened. I knew where my passport was; and it wasn’t in Barcelona. It was in Tossa de Mar (see Part Dos for our trip to Tossa and the awful bus ride back).
I remembered going into the hotel room in Tossa and leaving a few valuables (passport, phone, keys) underneath a blanket on the top shelf of the closet. I remembered going back to get my phone and keys later, and I knew that I hadn’t checked under the blanket when we left.
The thought that I had left my passport in Tossa hit me like the feeling you have right after you back your car into something: nauseous terror. And, honestly, the worst part about it, the thing that brought me close to tears (go back and erase ‘close’), was the thought that I would have to take that awful bus, the bus that I vowed to myself never again to ride, back to Tossa. I had ruined our beach day… there was no question about having to go get it… it wasn’t like leaving a pair of pants behind… or even worse, what if someone had taken it… embassies, paperwork, passport and visa replacements… my future was looking more and more grim by the second. My usual default emotional position of positivity had given way to a flood of negative Armageddon-like thoughts.
As I was standing there despairing, my wife was trying as hard as she could not to crack up laughing at the spectacle I was making of myself. She said, “Here it is!” and pulled my passport out of the bottom of my bag. Isn’t she brilliant :)
[This is about what she looked like when she said, “Here it is!”]