Note: Sabriñita’s words are in normal typeface, Beño’s are in italics.

I don’t know that I’ve ever had a trip come together as last minute as this one did.

When, about a month ago, West Jet’s pilots voted to strike in advance of the May long weekend, I truly doubted it would actually come to that. So when the union sent out their 72 hour notice, indicating that the strike would begin at 3am on Friday, I was shocked.

Two days passed, and the clock ticked down toward our Saturday departure time. We knew we’d have to cancel our rental car — luckily the only thing we’d booked so far — by Thursday before bed. West Jet cancelled around two hundred flights on Thursday and Friday, presumably to stop crew and planes from being stranded out of country. 

But on Friday morning, I woke to the news: the negotiating parties had reached a deal at the 11th hour. A strike was averted. We were going to Spain. And we suddenly had a lot to get done in the next 10 or so hours.

And so after work on Friday, we finished packing and drove through the smoke-choked skies along the Yellowhead highway. En route, we received the emergency notification letting us know that another community had been evacuated to the north of us.

On the way down I got to talking about how I need to relearn to embrace novelty and uncertainty. I remember how I thrived when I moved to Sudbury, and how our adventurous spirit was a major attraction for each other. Every time I moved or made some change in my life, I had so much more energy than when my life had become simply comfortable. When the strike threatened to postpone our trip to the fall, I felt how much easier that would be: I wouldn’t get so behind at work, more time to learn spanish, more time to plan the trip, more time this summer for my pleasant routine and minor outings. I deliberately pushed those feelings away. I want to revive the spirit for adventure that I had as a twenty something without a house or career. I hope this trip, our first big one since 2019, will catalyze this.

The airport process itself was shockingly smooth. It was funny to board such a large, equipped plane after so many flights on Flair. We have large seat-back screens, meals, snacks. The rows are 9 people across. 

We have our basic itinerary mapped out for the next three weeks. But all we’ve got booked is our first night accommodation, our rental car (we found a new option at actually a much cheaper price… hopefully it’s not problematic). 

Upon touchdown, we began the routine to-do’s of entering a new place: customs, bag retrieval, figuring out the metro system. All went smoothly, if not quickly. 

We felt the humidity as soon as we stepped off the plane. Sabrina’s hair immediately began sending out exploratory curls. I felt my shirt sticking to my back. Our hotel was a quick train ride and a walk through a palm-lined park full of dogs and skateboarders doing tricks.

We squished into the matchbox elevator. Fell into the hotel room, exhausted. Showered off the sweat of red-eye travel. Neither of us had slept a wink, and couldn’t muster much ambition to get out and discover one of the world’s great cities. But our bellies grumbled, so we headed out for a local must: tapas.

It was instantly clear just how clueless we are with the language. We had been fairly dedicated Duolingoists and that gave me a false assurance. First, native speakers are much too fast and don’t let me press the read slower button. Second, they mostly speak Catalan here in Catalonia. Catalan is not a Spanish dialect. It is it’s own fully fledged daughter of Latin. In short, we make asses of ourselves at every encounter.

Lupper was a quiet affair. The tapas was delicious and while we waited for our seafood paella entree, we stared dead-eyed at the gorgeous cityscape around the restaurant

Then the paella arrived and the expressive faces of the shrimp stared back.

I am squeamish about deshelling my own seafood (lobster is trauma not delicacy in my experience) and so Ben did me a kindness and prepared my shrimp for me. 

We considered going for a walk, to try to make it a bit further into the evening before trying to sleep. But we were weak. Our bellies were full and the jet lag was lagging. When Ben suggested we just go back and sleep (it was 5pm), we convinced ourselves that on the deficit we were working with, we’d likely just sleep all the way through the night. We were fools. No, Ben is the fool. I was merely a fool to believe him.

Drifting off felt incredible. Half a dozen times, I felt the world slide sidewise as I rocked on the edge of sleep before my thoughts went still. When I awoke, it was dark.

It was also 9pm.

Don’t worry we’ll fall right back to sleep.

Reader, we did not. When it became clear that we were both awake-ish, we took a few hours to strategize our next few days. Come midnight, we’d booked our hotel in Begur for the next three nights, and planned some activities. We turned off the lights, knowing we needed to get out the door by 8:30am in time to get to la Sagrada Familia, a famous cathedral with wicked wait times.

Ben eventually drifted off. I did not. And the mind started to spiral. As I went over prospective plans and alternatives again and again in my head, I fretted that despite the fact that we decided to lean into the spontaneous nature of this trip, I’m still somewhat struggling to let go of trying to “optimize everything.” At 6am, I decided to go for a run, knowing that just moving my body and doing something where there’s a smidge of adventure involved (do I turn left or right? How does a city look when it’s waking up?) would help.

Who dares disturb my slumber?? Hmm a run? So impressive my love. I’ll just be here if you need me honk shoo honk shoo.

For the record, he did tell me to be safe. I sent him a screenshot of my planned route, and headed out into the pre-dawn.

I instantly awakened. The narrow cobblestone alleys were aglow with streetlights and, well, I won’t say I got lost… because I could see clearly on my downloaded google maps where I was… and my watch was telling me exactly how off-route I was… but I did take a wrong turn or two just based on what looked intriguing.

But when I saw that it was nearly 7am (the time I’d told Ben I’d likely be back) it was time to sprint home.

Back so soon my dear? Must have dozed again. I shook off the sleep and packed. We squeezed back into the elevator, door won’t close, squish in further, look up at the mirror ceiling and catch her eye and grin. We dove into the subway. The platform wasn’t busy, so I was not expecting the subway car. Of course. Monday morning at 8:45. I stared in horror as the sardine tin peeled open. Sabrina strode determinedly towards the solid wall of commuters. Sabrina, we won’t fit! She jumped on anyway and pushed in. The doors started to close. I jumped in too, forcing the tangle of limbs to pack tighter. The doors tried to on me again. I pushed harder. The train moved. Every pair of eyes said “dumb tourists”.

Our stop came and we escaped to the fresher air. The station is right outside the cathedral. I looked up. I had to lean back to see the tops of the spires. It is so tall. It is the pointiest building. It is covered in faces and animals. Cranes were hoisting giant stone blocks. Nothing is a real shape. The windows are halfway between triangles and circles. The row of columns halfway up are canted at an angle. There are slits that start kind of square and get squished and short and then get taller again as they go up. The pillars are stretched eggs and covered in features like stalagmites. There are words and statues enacting whole stories are carved in every free space. It is endlessly weird and engrossing.

I didn’t care for the weird baubles topping the towers. But Gaudi’s Gaudi, and I’m not a world-famous architect so what do I know.

…. Story to be continued but right now it’s bedtime…