Fail Boxes Etc.

Over the past few days in Madrid, a few things have become clear:

I have an eating disorder...

...and my sister and I are idiots.

Let's discuss the food first.

Now, this is not a food blog.  And I fully understand that no one really cares what I'm eating.

But HOLY CRAP.  These chocolate churros are insanity.

We went to a place called Miranda around the corner from our Air BNB...

...where we fell in love with the food ...

...the staff...

...and the decor.

The dinner was refreshing.

In fact, it was a goddamned delight.

My personal favorite was the eggplant chips...

...served with a traditional tomato soup.

It is, by far, the best thing I've put in my mouth in Madrid.

And I'm somewhat of an expert, since I've been eating everything under the sun...

..as well as the sun itself.

(Sorry, everyone.)

Anyway...now to the idiot portion of our stay in Madrid.

Donna decided that she wanted to ship some stuff back to the states.  So, we found a Mail Boxes Etc kind of near us.  (Apparently, they are still in business in Spain.)  The plan was for Donna, John and I to drop her shit off and then go out for tapas and drinks and enjoy the day.

And then tragedy struck.

We got to the address, and there was no MBE there.  The cab driver pulled over and we hopped out of the car, hoping it was just hidden somewhere.  You know, since businesses often like to keep their locales secret.

And then tragedy struck again.

As we were getting out of the cab, John cut his finger on the door handle and nearly sliced his finger off.    There was a lot of blood...

...and it wouldn't stop.

Obviously, instead of seeking medical attention, we stopped (and bled upon) a handsome UPS driver and tried to convince him to just give us a box and a label and take it away...

... but the language barrier prevented a package exchange.  Unfortunately.

Dejected, we began to wander the streets looking for medical attention for John, who was beginning to get woozy.

Suddenly, we heard a ruckus behind us.

It was the UPS driver again, running toward us.  Apparently, he used the trail of blood from John's sliced open finger to track us down.

He gave us a phone number to call, and then ran off like a superhero.

We didn't call the number, instead opting to walk aimlessly in the hopes of finding a place to ship her items.

We finally found a place that wanted to charge nearly 250 Euros to ship a very small pretty light weight box to the States.

Donna opted against this plan, and nearly climbed into the box herself.  It was around this time that John finally bled out, so we'll be Weekend-at-Bernies-ing him for the rest of the trip.

More later!

The Pain in Spain Has Driven Her Insane

Donna and Val have finally arrived, 18 hours later than originally planned...

...and a lot dirtier.

For those of you who are unaware, here's a brief recap of her Journey to Barce-HELL-ona:

• A worldwide disruption to the British Air check in system sets her initial flight out of San Diego back four hours.  This is what we in "the biz" call a "vagaster."

• Upon arriving in London for their layover, Donna and Val are told that they have missed their connection (unsurprising, since they were FOUR. HOURS. LATE.)  They are given a hotel for the night. They are not given their luggage.  "It will take hours to find.  Pip, Pip!" the British air rep was quoted as saying.

• Donna and Val sleep for approximately 30 seconds, before getting up and heading back to Heathrow.   They have to put back on the same clothing they've been wearing since San Diego.  They may need to book extra seats for the clothes.

• Donna tries to re-book the car that was supposed to pick them up when they landed in Barcelona.  Donna is told no car will be waiting for her when she arrives.  She did not ask for a reason, for she has given up.

• A full 18 hours after their scheduled arrival time, Donna and Val land in Barcelona.  Donna's luggage, however, is still traveling.  She is told that it will be arriving on a flight that lands in 3 hours.  11 hours later, it still has not shown up.

That sign says "SKUNKFUNK."  And so does Donna.

• We drink about it...

...and I begin to draw stink-lines all over her photos:

Donna:  Deliriously happy...or just delirious?  

• She sobs and asks why I am tormenting her.  I tell her it's because her tears are all she has left to wash her smelly face with.  And then I laugh and laugh.

• She and I walk around for a while, exploring the city.  Well, I was exploring the city; she was stinking up the joint.  Donna begins to limp because the shoes she wore were great for sitting on a plane...but not so much for the walking, as it turns out.  Here's a picture of what they don't look like:

Her real shoes are in her luggage.  Probably somewhere near the Dharma hatch.

• We try to get back to the hotel, but the pedestrian bridge is closed.  We have to go a million miles out of the way to go back.  Donna is leaving a trail of blood wherever we roam.

• Donna would like to shower and burn the clothes she's been wearing for more than 70 hours.  But she has nothing else to wear.  She borrows a t-shirt from me.  

• Donna also borrows a pair of underwear from me, because we have no boundaries.   Or shame, apparently. Now we are both perishing.  Photos of this will not be included in the blog...

...well, except for that one.  

But as always food is the solution to all the traumas.  So we went to a lovely tapas place, which was not called this:

...and ordered the world:

We ate our faces off and had some wine and now it's time for sleep, since tomorrow is now officially Donna's only full day in Barcelona.  

And we have some drinking to do.

***UPDATE:  Donna's luggage arrived @ 1AM.  A full 11 hours after she did--and a full 29 hours after it was supposed to.  Good job, team! 

Hopefully she'll keep my underwear.        

Barce-ALONE-a

So, Donna and Val continue to be thwarted...

They are currently spending the night in London, and won't actually be joining me in Barcelona until tomorrow at some point. (Although I suspect they'll continue to be F'd.)

They at least get to spend the night in a hotel in London.  So...that's something.  Right?

"Hello, room service?  Yes, I'd like a new trip, please."

Remember that time Donna planned an entire trip, and I was the only one who got to actually participate?  

Well, I took full advantage of my day alone in Barcelona:  The City That Got Me Drunk.™

I've always wondered what it would feel like to travel internationally alone. Would I perish?  Would I be bored?  And most importantly, would I see any matador ass?  I searched for answers to my many questions...

...but I found none.

I started wandering the streets of Barcelona, mourning the loss of my sister.  It's these moments of solitude that make you wonder:  What does life even mean?

I searched everywhere for the key to my heart...

...but came up empty.

Barcelona is a city thriving...

and yet here I was, perishing.

I tried knocking for opportunity...

...but that didn't quite work out...

So, as I continued wandering through the maze of dark alleyways that make up this city...


...alone..

...I couldn't get rid of the sense of melancholy filled my heart--NO! my SOUL!  If anything it seemed to be weighing on me more and more, getting louder and louder and louder.  My god, it was deafening.

And then I realized what it was...

...luckily, the soundtrack of depression stopped...

...and I was able to snap back into reality.

To celebrate,  I took myself out to dinner and ate delicious tapas!

Well, if you insist!

...and then took myself out for drinks to a bar called Atame...

...which greeted me with this mess just inside the front door:

That, coupled with this...

...led me to worry that perhaps I had made a huge mistake.

However, it's a Tuesday night, I'm not sure where else to go, and, most importantly--they have KIWI MOJITOS on the menu.  So how bad could it be?

There's even fresh mint on the bar...

...which the 11 year old bartender used to make my delicious drink.  And also the next three-to-five thousand delicious drinks.

Things started to get a little hazy when the Spanish version of TEQUILA started.

That's about the time the French couple next to me went insane, dancing and singing along. Upon seeing me laugh at their antics, they struck up a conversation, and assured me that these were the best mojitos in the land.  I wasn't prepared to disagree.

I also wasn't prepared for when one of the bartenders came up to us, counted to three in Spanish, and apparently instructed his co-worker to give us three shots of caramel-flavored booze.

It filled me with caramel-flavored happiness. It also filled me with happiness to learn that this couple met five years ago at my favorite bar in Paris--Freedj, which was featured on Stabbey Road Trip!

So after all of this, I learned a very important lesson about myself tonight.

Who needs a sister when there is caramel flavored booze...

....or HAM FLAVORED PRINGLES?!

Who's Donna?