It’s our last day in Barcelona. Instead of roaming the city, eating tapas, and being romanced by swarthy Spaniards (all of whom want to sell me a selfie stick), I am sitting in my hotel room all by myself having an epic pity party: I’ve been sick for the last 2 days with what is most assuredly the most disgusting and horrible stomach flu I’ve ever had in Spain. The only thing I can keep down is fruit and fruit-based beverages, which makes Barcelona a pretty damn convenient place to be. There’s amazing and bountiful fruit all up in this bitch (“bitch” referring to both myself and the city).
Oh good, a delightful sea breeze just blew the shutters of my hotel Juliette balcony wide open so now I can see the sunshine and gorgeous city I’m missing out on. That’s nice.
I’ll upload my photo gallery when I have a better internet connection, and share some stories when we’re home. Illness aside, I’ve had a wonderful time in Spain – we’re already talking about coming back at a time when Ed’s brain chemistry isn’t made of what my stomach is producing at this moment. That will be lovely. If you’re ever in the mood for some winter jamón, I can’t recommend Barcelona in February enough – the weather is fantastic, it’s less crowded (which is kind of scary, I can’t imagine this place in the summer), and see above re: bountiful fruit, should you come down with late-vacation rectal failure.
You’ve been lovely, Barcelona. I will return, and we will make like the Erotic Museum until we’re both dehydrated and in need of pubic grooming. Until then, I am sad and sick and lonely and sad and really kind of pathetic but damnit, I’m missing out on a third of my vacation and that fucking blows.