Make a Fucking List and Check it Fucking Twice!

sleepless in barcelona

sleepless in barcelona

The time I was like the mom in Home Alone and almost shit myself…

 

 

Dear Sleepless in Barcelona,

 

 

 

I touch down in Heathrow for my two-hour layover and immediately try emailing my ‘Landlord’ in Barcelona trying to get the address of the loft I’m going to be staying in for the first leg of my trip. Try using my cellphone to email. No service. Not a problem, I’ll use my computer to get a hold of the guy. Battery at 30%. No problem. Just gotta find an outlet to plug in my charger…my charger…my charger?

 

CHARGER!? (Said like the Mom in Home Alone)

 

I knew I was going to forget something. Maybe my toothbrush. Or deodorant. Or socks. (I’ve forgotten all of those in some way, shape, or form on previous trips) Nope, just my laptop charger. No big deal. I’m just a fucking IDIOT. Well, it’s a relatively short flight to Barcleona, so at least I won’t have that much time to worry myself into having an aneurism. (I don’t think that’s even possible, but I swear I felt a vein in my head throbbing like it was about to burst)

 

I no longer breathe recycled air and don’t have to hold my flatulence in anymore. Oh what a relief it is. I’m walking through the ghost town that is the Barcelona Airport, to grab some cash from the ATM, and my cellphone still has no service. I’m not just talking one or two bars. It says ‘No Service’ in big fucking letters. I accidentally grab 220 Euros instead of 200 but figure I’m gonna spend this cash eventually, so no big deal. (Apparently nothing’s a big deal when you’re on a trip and have no plan other than to work for three weeks in a Michelin Star kitchen)

 

I try and pay the cab driver ‘con mi tarjeta,’ but my card is declined. Don’t worry. Probably just his machine. I pay in cash and meet up with my ‘Landlord’ Adam, who lives right next door to my amazing loft. If the Real World was one stranger, chosen to live alone for 3 weeks, where people stop showering and start getting real. This would be the place.

 

Adam shows me to a local wine shop that screams Spain, the same way Pirates of the Caribbean (the ride not the movie) screams Pirates! Barrels of local Spanish red and white wines stacked to the ceiling. Wood and wine bottles everywhere. I dare you to find a square meter not covered by a hanging pig leg or oil painting of a matador. Nothing but Spaniards and laughter echo between the walls and the aroma of pinxto’s being prepared behind the counter fill in the gaps. The proprietor knows the farms and cheese makers of each variety in his cheese case. There wasn’t much variety in the way of the queso, but what was lacking in quantity was easily made up in quality. I get a blood sausage link, a foie gras croquette, a stinky cheese, and small baguette. And obviously some wine. I try and pay with my card again. Declined. I’m too embarrassed to put back the food he has meticulously wrapped and tied with butchers twine. Four small presents begging to be torn open as if it’s 8am on December 25th. Now I’m starting to get nervous. (By the way the thought of putting the wine back never crossed my mind.)

 

Fuck my life.  I’ll write you soon.

 

 

Best,

 

 

Rick Scott

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