Our final evening in Barcelona.
After another long day of sightseeing (no, despite what every single person has told me, it is not a tiny city to explore in two hours)we are recovering on the sofas in the fancy pants exec lounge (both Mother and myself sporting rather un-fancy sneakers and a handful of video/photo devices). Keeping ourselves to ourselves (or being anti-social) by reviewing the day's photographs with wine and tapas , arranging our evening to visit the Fountain of Montjuic and trying to soothe Mother's angst over the obnoxiously-loud woman from New York who was passionately telling the entire room every last intricate detail about her (boring) day and completely oblivious to her 12 year old son waddling back to the sofa with a mountain of chicken nuggets. Mother and I observed as her audience were pretending to be listening intently (one man was definitely snoring at one point) and her son shovelled the entire plate into his mouth within 2 minutes.
Anyway. Just a few minutes before we were about to leave, we spot the two guys from the night before. I have not written about the previous evening's experience, however the brief version is as follows;
Waiting for Mother, I am standing in the lounge, reading the city guide, as a young man with a strong New York accent approaches me (referred to as 'E' from here on) and asks me where the hotspots are for a good night out. I apologetically inform him that it is my first time visiting and therefore am very under-educated regarding this subject. I do, however, feebly recommend the only place I could remember from the day. Natter, natter, natter until he invites me (and Mother who has suddenly appeared behind me and introduced herself) to have drinks with him and his friend from London (referred to as 'O' from here on). Long story short, E (pro squash player) and myself found joint comfort in the fact that Mother and O (pro polo player) were in deep business chat that lasted until 23:30 (at which point we sleepily tottered into the nearest tapas bar for supper).
Back to the current time. We spot O and E (looking a little worse for wear to be honest) cruise in, hunting for beer.
"shh! Don't make eye contact, I want to get out tonight!" Mother says.
Oddly enough, O and E have indeed spotted the red-head woman shielding her face behind both her daughter and her goldfish bowl of red wine. As they make their way over to the empty sofa beside us, Mother un-tucks herself and greets them, as do I. I was actually quite glad for their company as I knew they'd have a rather interesting report from their night. I was not wrong; O had woken up in the hallway somewhere and E had stripped off at a club, into the pool and then out again to find himself on the beach, before being picked up by a group of Italians who luckily gave him a far-too-tight floral shirt to wear into the hotel at 5am.
"Well what do you expect? An Italian shirt will always be tight!" Mother adds.
He also lost his expensive mobile. In case you hadn't caught on, these men are those of the 'lavish lifestyle' and two nights before had partied with Snoop Dogg. Also close friends of Prince Harry.
So, thirty minutes in, I am subtly trying to nudge Mother in hope that she will realise we ought to leave. I try again one hour later. After two and half hours of 'socialising' they free us. It is around 10pm and we are still in our attire from the day (not good).
No time for the magic fountain. This is exceedingly disappointing and for a moment I hold aggressive hatred for O and E (and Mother...) but the moment passes. We find a very nice restaurant just around the corner instead, relieving us from a midnight metro ride.
The only imperfection about the restaurant is that, as the Spanish eat rather late, it is extremely busy. Mother, of course, will not be seated inside the restaurant and therefore we must wait fifteen minutes for a terrace table. I'm far from being concerned as my energy levels are dangerously low. Regardless of energy levels my hearing is always acute to horrible noises. The worst being noisy, bratty children and, tonight, a baby crying on the terrace has fallen into this category. I glance at Mother to see if she has noticed it. Of course she has; pursed lips and fury in her eyes. Before I know it, she has marched over to the over-worked waitress;
"Why is that allowed?! What is wrong with parents?! Either you shut it up or I will."
The waitress tries to explain that families dine together in Spain and crying babies are sort of included in that. Mother does not accept this and continues to raise her eyebrows at each gurgle heard.
Eventually we are seated (after a small kerfuffle) by the balcony. Not 30 seconds go by and another table is put next to us. Literally, the two tables are now touching. Joined. Like some sort of arranged marriage. This baffles Mother. She is momentarily speechless as a young couple are then seated at this table. It is essentially a table for 4.
Luckily Mother had enough wine with O and E to let this bizarre scene occur with no fuss. In fact, Mother has become so relaxed she says;
"Well, if this is the way Spanish dine then we must absorb the culture and join in, don't you agree, Darling? I quite like it actually, this intimate experience, I feel like we might be friends with them! Isn't this nice, Darling? I like this! Oh..."
Oh. They have been relocated to another table. Mother's face drops. Then the waiter removes the nice tablecloth from the table beside us to reveal a nice metal...
"PICNIC TABLE?! Oh for God's sake, Darling! Why did he take the tablecloth away?! I can't dine next to that! What on earth...?"
By this time, I don't believe I would notice if I were having supper on a sea lion, so long as I was eating something.
The unfortunate events cease as our food arrives, which was absolutely lovely and has now changed our opinion of Spanish food. As it turns out; it's beautiful. We just live in the one region where they don't really know what they're doing.
If you stuck with me all the way to the end here, congratulations on your attention span! Thank you for reading :)
xoxo
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