Okay, my blogging has been unforgivably sporadic lately, but I swear it’s for a good reason(s). It’s called a nine month old daughter, being crazy busy with work, stupid Spanish bureaucracy, and a last minute trip back to the U.S. for work. I promise to do better. You forgive me? Yay! Moving on…
So, last weekend hubbie, baby and me went to Barcelona for the weekend. Don’t worry, this post isn’t going to be another virtual tour of Gaudi’s home town. I’m sure you’ve heard and seen enough of Parc Guel and Sagrada Familia to make your eyes bleed. Nope. This little diddy takes place in a little beach town outside of Barcelona, called Premia de Mar.
Leo (hubbie), Fiona (baby) and I hop on a Vueling (overpriced EU airline) flight from PMI (Palma de Mallorca) to BCN (Barcelona) on Friday afternoon, the very next day that I returned from San Francisco from an eleven day work and shopping related trip. Yes, this sweet little jet set life I lead is going to kill me before I’m 40. Anyhoo, this is the shortest flight for which I’ve ever had the pleasure of being overcharged. We take off, fly for about 20 minutes and then the captain lets us know in a headless, muffled, intercom voice that we’re now preparing for our decent. Wow. I’m glad we paid 300 euros for a 30 minute flight.
Upon arrival, Leo’s brother comes to pick us up from the airport and spirits us away to their sister’s house in Premia de Mar – about a 30 minute drive, I think. I passed out, so I can’t be positive – where we arrive just in time to sit down to a delicious supper of ceviche, vegetarian lasagna and a tastey, crisp white wine. Bliss.
And here, my friends is a snapshot of the rest of our whirlwind mini-break, as the Brits lovingly call these sorts of weekend getaways, at least according to “Bridget Jones’ Diary:”
First day of weekend mini-break:
Wake up as late as our nine month old lets us.
Take a walk around the neighborhood in search of some yummy breakfast pastries.
Hit the local Farmacia for some extra baby formula.
Proceed to be bitch slapped by the nasty attitude of the Catalan Pharmacist when I ask her for the “economic” formula option. I was trying to explain to her the formula we usually buy at the Farmacia in Puigpunyent, which has a great value, as the price isn’t bad, it’s a good brand, and has more formula than most packages. But no, instead of letting a girl get in a sentence, the hag has to turn on her nasty switch and be a total borde (smart ass) pratt. I wanted to hit her, and it was my birthday, so I almost did, but I decided not to perpetuate the bad rap we Americans have for violence and sulked for a while instead. PUNK!
Make up for previous bummer experience with pastries!
Hit the beach! One of the best things about this little town is that everyone pretty much lives within walking distance to the beach. So we lather our pasty selves up with sun block 50 and mosey on over to be witness to Fiona’s first day at the beach. It was heaven.
Eat lunch at beach front resto. Get sick because my body just can’t process the insane quantities of oil the Spaniards cook with.
Head home to chill out. Eat toast with butter and jam and tea for dinner because I’m too scared to try anything else and watch “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.” The dubbed on TV version. Awesome.
Second day of weekend mini-break:
Hop on the Renfe into Barcelona with Leo, Fiona, Karen and Albert (Leo’s sister and manfriend), and 50 lbs of baby gear.
Walk around a lot while trying to avoid death by heat prostration.
Have lunch at a cute little Thai place called Double Zero. I should have known.
Get sick and swear off all restaurants in Spain for the forseable future.
Walk around some more admiring the architecture, ports, windy streets of the Barrio Gotico, etc. At this point, my stomach is so inflamed, I look like I’m pregnant and just go with it to avoid weird looks.
Hit the Renfe back to Premia de Mar.
Enjoy another cuisinere evening with toast avec butter and jam and some boiled green beans and potatoes. Crazy.
Day of departure and back to reality:
Almost miss our flight due to a miscalculation in the amount of time needed to get from Premia de Mar to the airport by Renfe, then bus and decide to cab it. Ouch.
Fly back to Palma.
Stay tuned for more misadventures of the MacLean clan. Dun. Dun. DUN!