We are back from Barcelona!
As seems par for the course with anything we do, the trip was not entirely without incident. First, there was the matter of actually getting on the aeroplane. Somehow, notwithstanding our best efforts at planning the journey to Heathrow, we arrived at the airport with only 45 minutes to spare. We still thought, rather smugly, that we had heaps of time, as we had diligently printed off our boarding passes and had only to drop off our one check-in bag and pass through security. However, the fellow behind the bag drop counter informed us we had best not dawdle as he thought the boarding gate for our flight might have already closed. Apparently it was closing early for some reason (typical BA!). A quick sprint to the boarding gate followed, and we managed to get onto the plane just in time.
Unfortunately, given the last minute dash, I did not have time to purchase a book at the bookstore at the airport, as I had planned. I tried reading G's book over his shoulder on the flight, but that was met only with irritated looks, and with G moving the book further and further from my view. The man sitting to my left was reading a tome entitled "the existentialists' journal". He was on the chapter "an existentialist's look at sexuality". I thought that might be a bit much for my holiday reading. I also wasn't keen to get into a debate with an existentialist regarding the acceptability of looking over a stranger's shoulder to read his book. Therefore, it was a rather boring flight.
At last we arrived in Barcelona. We got off the plane, went through what passes for security in Barcelona (a teenager half-heartedly looking at our passports and waiving us through) and went to collect our luggage. Hurrah, we thought, our holiday has begun! And then we waited. And waited. And waited. We saw numerous suitcases of all different sizes and colours on the luggage carousel, but sadly didn't see our little bag. Eventually the carousel stopped, and we found ourselves standing there, along with two other passengers, with terrified looks on our faces. Off we stomped to the lost luggage counter where we were told that our luggage was still in Heathrow. The other two passengers told us they had this happen to them previously when flying with BA, and so had packed all their travel essentials in their day packs. Being the trusting and optimistic travellers we are, we had done no such thing. The situation was particularly unpleasant for G, as I had extra clothes in my day pack. G did not. And, given London's rather cool and wet summer, G's clothing was not suited to the Barcelona heat. We were, however, determined not to let this little hiccup ruin our holiday. After all, the helpful lady at the lost luggage counter had assured us the luggage would be put on the first light out of London to Barcelona and would be with us by the morning …
The next morning we waited at the hotel expectantly for the luggage. When it became apparent that morning was turning into lunch time, the hotel called the airport for us and were told our luggage was still in Heathrow, but should get to us in the next day or two. A frantic trip to H&M followed, with G buying the cheapest summer outfit and board shorts he could find. We then reclined by the hotel pool, hoping our luggage would turn up in time so that G did not have to spend the entire holiday wearing his new hot pink and white stripped shorts, misshapen grey t-shirt and free hotel slippers.
Eventually, late on Saturday night, our luggage arrived. The trip then improved significantly, as G no longer had to venture out looking like one of the local drunks, and I no longer had to venture out looking like I was married to one of the local drunks.
The rest of the trip was wonderful. Beautiful weather, lovely hotel, great food. But let's face it, you don't want to hear me gloat about my holiday. Particularly when, in all likelihood, you are reading this from your computer at work. Therefore, I will simply say that we ate and drank far more than two relatively slim people should and enjoyed ourselves immensely.
As seems par for the course with anything we do, the trip was not entirely without incident. First, there was the matter of actually getting on the aeroplane. Somehow, notwithstanding our best efforts at planning the journey to Heathrow, we arrived at the airport with only 45 minutes to spare. We still thought, rather smugly, that we had heaps of time, as we had diligently printed off our boarding passes and had only to drop off our one check-in bag and pass through security. However, the fellow behind the bag drop counter informed us we had best not dawdle as he thought the boarding gate for our flight might have already closed. Apparently it was closing early for some reason (typical BA!). A quick sprint to the boarding gate followed, and we managed to get onto the plane just in time.
Unfortunately, given the last minute dash, I did not have time to purchase a book at the bookstore at the airport, as I had planned. I tried reading G's book over his shoulder on the flight, but that was met only with irritated looks, and with G moving the book further and further from my view. The man sitting to my left was reading a tome entitled "the existentialists' journal". He was on the chapter "an existentialist's look at sexuality". I thought that might be a bit much for my holiday reading. I also wasn't keen to get into a debate with an existentialist regarding the acceptability of looking over a stranger's shoulder to read his book. Therefore, it was a rather boring flight.
At last we arrived in Barcelona. We got off the plane, went through what passes for security in Barcelona (a teenager half-heartedly looking at our passports and waiving us through) and went to collect our luggage. Hurrah, we thought, our holiday has begun! And then we waited. And waited. And waited. We saw numerous suitcases of all different sizes and colours on the luggage carousel, but sadly didn't see our little bag. Eventually the carousel stopped, and we found ourselves standing there, along with two other passengers, with terrified looks on our faces. Off we stomped to the lost luggage counter where we were told that our luggage was still in Heathrow. The other two passengers told us they had this happen to them previously when flying with BA, and so had packed all their travel essentials in their day packs. Being the trusting and optimistic travellers we are, we had done no such thing. The situation was particularly unpleasant for G, as I had extra clothes in my day pack. G did not. And, given London's rather cool and wet summer, G's clothing was not suited to the Barcelona heat. We were, however, determined not to let this little hiccup ruin our holiday. After all, the helpful lady at the lost luggage counter had assured us the luggage would be put on the first light out of London to Barcelona and would be with us by the morning …
The next morning we waited at the hotel expectantly for the luggage. When it became apparent that morning was turning into lunch time, the hotel called the airport for us and were told our luggage was still in Heathrow, but should get to us in the next day or two. A frantic trip to H&M followed, with G buying the cheapest summer outfit and board shorts he could find. We then reclined by the hotel pool, hoping our luggage would turn up in time so that G did not have to spend the entire holiday wearing his new hot pink and white stripped shorts, misshapen grey t-shirt and free hotel slippers.
Eventually, late on Saturday night, our luggage arrived. The trip then improved significantly, as G no longer had to venture out looking like one of the local drunks, and I no longer had to venture out looking like I was married to one of the local drunks.
The rest of the trip was wonderful. Beautiful weather, lovely hotel, great food. But let's face it, you don't want to hear me gloat about my holiday. Particularly when, in all likelihood, you are reading this from your computer at work. Therefore, I will simply say that we ate and drank far more than two relatively slim people should and enjoyed ourselves immensely.
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