[That is Spanish for “D.I. Whynot?” Sort of.]
All work and no play makes jack a dull boy. It also makes a very dull The Boy and The Girl. So, for our anniversary this year we decided to treat ourselves a little bit. That’s right folks, we staged ourselves a little P.O.S. invasion of Barcelona, Spain!
Unfortunately, international travel doesn’t lend itself very well to traveling with The Dog, so she spent nine days with my cousin and his wonderful family. We were sad not to have her, but we knew she was in good hands.
Getting on our way was surprisingly easy (stay tuned…not all flights went as smoothly). While our flight attendants (is that the properly P.C. way to say that?) were RIDICULOUSLY grumpy, we found ways to keep ourselves entertained.
We ran into some family in Spain:
We visited La Sagrada Familia (after waiting two hours in the rain – totally worth it!):
…a bit more:
…ok – we drank more than a bit:
We also took a cable car ride over the city:
Visited the small beach town of Sitges and frolicked on the beach:
The Girl practiced her statue poses:
She even held up a building!
One thing we learned was if your car fits through an alley, plaza, or the middle of a crowd, what you are driving on must necessarily, then, be a roadway. I took a few photos to document this phenomenon:
And before we knew it, it was time to go. Sad faces all around. Little did we know that the adventure was just starting. We left our Barcelona apartment at 9:00 am for a flight scheduled to leave at 11:20. Bags: packed. Gifts: purchased and wrapped. The Girl and I were prepared and relaxed.
We got to the airport with an hour and a half to go. Perfect timing. We walk off the train at the airport, and proceed to the check in area. Except The Girl quickly determined that we are in the T-2 section of the airport, and now we have to take a bus to the T-1 terminal. THE BUS RIDE TOOK 30 MINUTES. Part of the trip was on a highway. Folks, if it takes thirty minutes to get from one part of your airport to another part of your airport, BY BUS…then you have two airports.
We made it to “the other part of the airport” with an hour still to go. Not optimal, but we should be fine.
But, no. We walked up to the check-in for American Airlines, and immediately The Girl flagged down an employee of the airline. By the time I got there, The Girl was in a panic. Apparently check-in for international flights gets cut off an hour before the flight. Well, we’re going to just barely make that deadline. And then The Girl and I realized that I have two bottles of booze in my carry on bag that are going to get confiscated. Admittedly, The Girl and I talked about this the prior evening, but we expected to get to the airport with plenty of time to swap the bottles into our checked bag.
Insert the proverbial wrench into the proverbial monkey. Or however that goes.
The Girl and I ripped open my carry on bag, and tore open my checked bag. The checked bag had all of our dirty clothes. There I sat, on the floor of an airport in Spain, throwing The Girl’s undergarments all over the check-in area. Underoos. Naked clothes. Unmentionables. It was unavoidable. We finally got the bottles into the dirty clothes, and dirty clothes into my carry on bag. Then it was time to zip up the bags, and get on our way to the gate.
Except that this was the exact second that the zipper of the checked bag decided to give up the fight. I pulled the zipper and plastic teeth went flying all over the place. The zipper exploded. Irreparably exploded. This is one of those moments when you think “Naw…this isn’t really happening. C’mon Ashton, jump out and tell me I got punked.” Ashton was nowhere to be found (generally a good thing).
End result: the carry on bag became the checked bag, and we ended up with one bottle of booze completely unprotected inside. The checked bag was now my “carry-on” except I was pretty sure this bag wasn’t going to fit in any overhead compartments.
We then sprinted to security, and then to our gate. When we got there, The Girl found out that she was “randomly” selected for “further security” inspection. She said it was invasive. She said that the female guard didn’t bother to buy her dinner first. She said the word “violated” came to mind.
Finally we were on the plane. No matter what else happened, we were going to at least make it as far as Miami. Once there we learned that the bag we tried to check with the two bottles of booze didn’t make the flight, but at that point all we were concerned with was getting home. Several hours later, our good friends Justin and Stephanie picked us up from the airport, and my cousin Stephen and his wife Tara (and their two awesome girls) had been to our place to drop off The Dog. They also made us dinner and left it there waiting for us! We had a snuggle reunion on the couch:
The next day the missing bag was dropped off by American Airlines. It smelled heavily of absinthe, and there were glass shards in the bag. The good news was that the OTHER bottle of booze made it, so we didn’t have much to complain about.
The Girl and I recharged our batteries, so that we could get back into the bathroom and make some dang progress!
Soon to come: DANG PROGRESS!