As expected, lots of police in Barcelona. Got Des to bed when we arrived and put the laundry in. And we needed to do laundry. I am quite proud of my packing skills. For this 2+ week trip, I managed to get all our stuff into one big backpack and two smaller ones – one of which Des can carry, and the other has my camera and laptop that I carry on my front. I planned seven days of fresh clothes for both of us and was timed to run out in Barcelona. I knew that if we got to Barcelona, we’d be good, and we wouldn’t be smelling too bad.
I got Des to bed and he was out like a light. I concentrated on the laundry, and just so you know that when AirBnB says there is a clothes dryer in the apartment, for future f**king reference it means a rusty old clothes horse, not a machine. But like Marines, we begrudgingly made do.
We all woke up late on Saturday morning and put in another load of laundry. Then we went out to explore. I can’t speak for Fiona, and I didn’t share this then, but I found myself thinking what if the unthinkable happened again? What if some crazed lunatic drove a transit van towards us – what would I do? It was hard to relax. Every thirty seconds or so I’d look for a store, or a tree, something to pull Des and Fiona into, out of harm’s way. Of course, it wasn’t going to happen, but I couldn’t help but think it.
We trundled along the marina and found a place to eat – L’Arros Arrosseria, as James Hurley correctly pointed out, the Rice Ricery.
Could there be better place to eat paella? Des had some crazy paella with fish in it because that’s his thing.
Then wandered to the local beach where Des was quick to point out the nude man sunning (no pun intended). And, Des met the Mediterranean Sea for the first time.
Later the evening we went out for Tapas near the apartment. There was a playground adjacent and Des played with the other kids and spoke Spanish. The Tapas were amazing.
On the walk back to the apartment we noticed lots of people standing in silence, while the police had taped off some of the road. Police cars raced by followed by a car with some kind of regal insignia. The Spaniards burst into spontaneous applause – we assume the car was carrying members of the Spanish royal family.
Then bed, and up early to get the train to Malaga – thankfully, the last long train ride. We debated taking a taxi to the station or taking the metro. We opted for the metro. Our walking route took us by the memorial to those who died in the attack. Des asked what it was and I told him. (We’d had a conversation on the TGV about what had happened – and it’s always a challenge to find a happy medium – what is the appropriate amount to share with a seven-year-old?)
We arrived at the station, boarded the 8:30 train, and left Barcelona.
We’ll be back – I’m sure.
About the author Mark
The trip home
La Casita Azul