Another airport. At least this time itâ€™s for leisure. We are finally taking our belated anniversary trip, which we were both too busy to take in April.
We are flying into Barcelona. The plan is to rent a car and then drive about two hours north to Lloret De Mar, where we had our honeymoon 14 years ago. Looking out the aircraft window, I marvel at the ethereal landscape the clouds make; itâ€™s almost as if you can step off the plane and walk for miles into the cloud mountains painted red from the sinking sun.
I read Kerouac to pass the time.
About an hour into the flight, the ride gets rocky; it feels like any moment the captain will come on the intercom and say â€˜bend over and kiss your assess goodbye because this is it boys and girls.â€™ Thankfully he just says fasten your seatbelts, the ride is going to be rough until we get over Paris.
We arrived at our hotel after midnight. The plane was and hour late landing. The drive north took us an hour and half and the first challenge we faced was finding a place to park our little Ford in a densely packed concrete beach town because the Hotel Cleopatra apparently doesnâ€™t have parking for its patrons. Nevermind. We drive around the endless one-way narrow streets until we find a place to park.
The night porter looks like Commander Adama from Battlestar Galactica. He is a pleasant chap â€“ helpful â€“ he tells us in Spanish and hand gestures how to find our room. We toss our bags on the bed and hit the hotel bar. The barmaid is Kat from Eastenders, but nowhere near as good looking as Kat, but twice as foul. We down a couple of Sangrias to wash the road from our tired bones before retiring for the night. The hotel is bare basic, but for 20 quid a night, itâ€™ll do just fine.