Our flight left at 4:20pm, right on time. My mom, dad, sister, and I reached Toronto in a little less than two hours. The flight to Barcelona took about 7 hours and 45 minutes, leaving at 7:10pm EST and arriving in Spain at 8:45am Spain time. The entire flight (excepting eating and sleeping for about 3 hours), I read the book The View From Here. The main dish of the special vegetarian meal Olivia and I got was, unfortunately, pretty bad. It was steamed kale, lentils, and sweet potatoes. It was the best kale I've ever had, but I still can't stand kale. I was quite happy with the yummy piece of bread on the side (I'm pretty much addicted to bread) and the moist, two-inch thick brownie for dessert. My dad let me have most of his vegetarian special--a delicious chickpea curry with basmati rice. Our attractive male flight attendant talked to Mama in Spanish about how good her food smelled, and later I found out that he also spoke French and English. Dang. I wish I could speak three languages! Well, maybe someday.
After arriving, we spent about an hour waiting in a long line to get our passports checked before getting our luggage. Then, it took us a while to find the shuttle to get to the car rental agency. It took Daddy two hours waiting in line to get the car (while Mama, O, and I read our books), and finally, we were off. We went a bit into Barcelona to get something to eat. As we drove to the nearest parking lot, I saw a sign that said "La Pata Negra," with a drawing of a leg of Iberian pig. Our vegetarianism going out the window, as expected, we immediately ordered four jamón serrano sandwiches. The bread was crunchy and pressed down onto layers of decadent, fatty jamón. As done in Cataluña, the bread had tomato rubbed on it. God, it was amazing.
After looking unsuccessfully for a map in El Corte Ingles, we drove to our AirBnB house in Pineda del Mar. Or, we tried to. Daddy got us to a nearby town with a shockingly similar name, and then we went to another town with a similar name, and finally we reached it. Ana and Carlos, the wonderful owners of our rented apartment, met us at the town's train station and led us to the gorgeous apartment.
Once we had set our things down and drank some ice cold Cokes and Estrellas, we walked around to find a place to eat dinner. We walked, tired and sleepy, for an hour looking for the perfect place. We eventually went back toward home and then doubled back to some of our restaurant options. It was about 7, and no authentic restaurant was serving food, just alcohol. One place didn't serve until 7:30, and another kitchen didn't open until 8:00. Such is the way of Spain. We settled for a tourist restaurant run by foreigners, and ordered the only Spanish food on the menu: patatas bravas (fried, cubed potatoes with a slightly spicy tomato-mayonnaise sauce) and croquettas. Both were pretty good because we were so hungry, but I was disappointed by the lack of authenticity.
Now, onto the supermarket. We got all the necessities: Nocilla (the superior Nutella of Spain), fresh bread, anchovy-stuffed olives, good cheese, salchichón, Maria cookies (my Spanish grandfather's favorite that I am now obsessed with), chocolate, and wine for my dad.
Back home, we had a true Spanish feast. We ripped hunks off of the warm bread and spread thick layers of sweet nocilla on it, sliced the flavorful cheese into perfect pieces, cut off slices of mouth-watering salchichón, and shared the delicious, sharp olives. We ate on the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, content and together. What a way to end the day.
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