20240423 Spain to LA
Left the UK on Thursday 18th April and flew straight to Barcelona with friends. Every time I fly Ryanair I say that it will be the last time, but just as the delirium of parenthood comes to overshadow the pain of childbirth I cannot help but find myself back in the saddle. What a miserable airline it is though. We spent a few sunny days out on the Catalan coast, ate good food, and discovered that the universal comedy of Mr Bean does indeed transcend the language barrier.
After a nauseous bus into Girona, Grace and I said goodbye to the others and carried on to Barcelona. Our hotel was in the Gothic Quarter and the Sunday streets were full of the sound of drums and trumpets, allegedly in celebration of Sant Jordi (or as I know him St George). That evening we saw many men selling long stem roses, and learned that the rose is symbolic of the blood shed by the dragon slayed by Sant Jordi, as the flowers are said to have bloomed from the lance wound inflicted by him. On reflection this is far more poetic than the myth of the English patron saint, in which the dragon is slayed in Berkshire and its blood kills all the grass.
Later that night I realised I had food poisoning, the effects of which were compounded by the building next to our hotel catching fire. As I writhed around half conscious in the early hours, I was aware of enormous banging and hooting from the courtyard outside. For a while I put this down to the enthusiastic Sant Jordi celebrations, and it was only after the room began to smell of smoke that I woke Grace. Downstairs fire engines lined the street, and the nervous concierge assured us that there was nothing to worry about, but that we must absolutely not leave the building.
The next day we got on a plane to Los Angeles and 13 hours later touched down in America.
