Cursed.

City bound again. This time, for me. Not that it matters because there will always be a dramatic ending. Having survived my interview, we worked up quite an appetite and in turn made the worst decision in months; we headed for tapas. Having vowed several times never to return to a Spanish restaurant, we went against our better judgement. The extraordinary things one does when hungry. I shall state here that NO, we did not choose the wrong place. I estimate we’ve been to over 25 Spanish restaurants since we’ve been here and they all serve the same thing, the same quality (low, very low) and charge for it.

Trying to play it safe, we order a seafood salad, fries, squid and an anchovy/olive… platter (?). Seafood salad arriving first and Mother shrieks. It resembles the horrendous Russian salad but the waiter confirms it’s most definitely not. I’ll admit, this wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t really anything though. A lot of mayonnaise, a few strips of lettuce and some crab sticks but edible. Waiter then brings the anchovy platter. I can’t. I struggle to speak of it. Two microscopic slivers of vinegar-drenched anchovies (yes, they were indeed coated in vinegar. Such a delicacy). That was it. Two slivers. Accompanied by four limp olives for presentation. Confusion at its finest as I stare at it, hoping that if I stare long enough it will transform into anything else. Oooh, I see fries. Brilliant. Yes, I am British, I don’t care. Something to fill us up…. Oh. Maybe not. Mother and I tried to be optimistic but sadly a small sprinkling of fries on a giant white plate made it tricky. Thankfully they were edible (I’m pretty sure these are failsafe and most likely why every Spanish restaurant includes them on their menus). Finally the squid arrived. Not calamari. They had really just fished anything out of the Mar Menor, slapped it on the grill for a few minutes and served it. Please trust me when I say we are certainly not fussy. We eat everything, anywhere. Mother and I had no problems in Los Angeles and we came home twelve stone heavier. At this moment, I notice the ‘specials’. “Thigh of chicken”. No, really, that’s it. Just a thigh. Of chicken. Spain really puts zero effort into their culinary training.  Spain has Paella or Tapas. A collection of every ingredient into one dish or a collection of every ingredient separated into individual dishes.

Twenty minutes later and the bill represents a figure that does NOT represent our satisfaction. I’m in shock. More shocked that we could be so stupid to do it again. I am considering contacting every Spanish restaurant in the country and requesting a sign to be put outside each one. It will illuminate when we approach and say “NO! NOT YOU TWO – YOU WON’T LIKE IT DON’T WASTE YOUR MONEY PLEASE GO NOW!”

Definitely time to go home (maybe eat).

“Ooooohh, what is she doing?” *Mother points at the girl by the river, appears very flexible* “Is that yoga? Or tai chi?”

“I’m pretty sure she’s just stretching before her run…” *Girl untangles herself from position and jogs on*

As the sun sets, the roads become busier (backwards country). A bright light blinds Mother and I, Mother screams and I look in the mirrors. The largest, scariest articulated truck has attached itself to the back of our car and is flashing us. I rarely see Mother in this state but we are both considering the chance that we’re being haunted. We are already going over the limit, we can only believe that the breaks have gone on this truck and he’s going to drive for as long as he can, swerving between currently-oblivious cars. At this point I see fellow drivers’ pitiful faces as they drive past. We are the subject of their prayers.

I’d very much like to continue the story of our journey home (another life-threatening experience awaits), so please refresh your tea and come back for the next post.

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo