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The kind of sentence that smells faintly of sunscreen and irresponsibility.

We left home with the precision of a German train timetable and arrived in Barcelona in 2 hours and 54 minutes. Not 3 hours. Not “about 3 hours.” Two. Fifty. Four. I mention this because at our age, shaving six minutes off a road trip feels like qualifying for the Olympics.

By 1pm we were parked in the middle of town, the sun shining with that smug Mediterranean confidence, as if to say, “Welcome. You look pale.”

Our hostel (yes, hostel — we are adventurous, not reckless) was conveniently located just around the corner from where we abandoned the car. Overnight bags dropped. Hunger activated. Within minutes we were striding across Plaça de Catalunya, sweeping down La Rambla like seasoned locals — if seasoned locals walked at the speed of people who had skipped lunch.

The tourist population of the planet appeared to be concentrated between La Rambla and Plaça Reial. Selfie sticks. Guided tours. A man dressed as something metallic and motionless.

Yet none of this prevented us from accomplishing the sacred ritual: securing a table in the sun at L’Ambos Mundos.

Large beer for me. (Hydration is important.)

Tapas to share. (Balance is important.)

The warmth felt glorious. That first Spanish beer on foreign soil should be bottled and prescribed by doctors.

By 3pm, like responsible adults who know their limits, we retreated to the hostel for what I described as a “well-deserved rest” and what younger people would call “a nap.”

There was a time — and I say this with a slight tremor of nostalgia — when the first thing I did in any hotel room was turn on the television. Business trips. Anonymous rooms. CNN murmuring in the background like a loyal but slightly dull companion. It felt like company.

Now?

The TV screen remains dark. A silent relic mounted on the wall. Phones and tablets have staged a quiet coup. We don’t watch television anymore; we scroll. Progress, apparently.

By 6pm we were back in motion, heading towards the Gothic Quarter with the seriousness of people on a mission: aperitif.

Finding a good bar in Barcelona is roughly as difficult as finding sand on a beach. We settled into Bar Brutal, where Negronis appeared as if summoned by Italian spirits. Two of them, in fact. Strictly for cultural integration.

A few minutes later we arrived at our pre-booked dinner destination: Tapeo del Born. Reservations are not optional here unless you enjoy watching other people eat.

Miraculously, we were seated at more or less the same spots at the bar as on previous visits. Either loyalty is rewarded, or we simply look like people who refuse to sit anywhere else.

The tapas menu appears unchanged in years. This is not a complaint. In a world obsessed with reinvention, there is something deeply comforting about croquettes that know exactly who they are. The bottle of red wine understood the assignment perfectly.

The walk home was easy, pleasant, and entirely map-free. I take disproportionate pride in not needing a digital map. Somewhere inside me lives a 17th-century navigator.

Bed by 10pm.

Let me repeat that.

10pm.

For me, this is usually the time I consider opening a book, starting a film, or making ambitious life decisions. Instead, I was horizontal. Partly from the day’s travel, partly from the Negroni diplomacy, and partly because my left shoulder — which has recently decided to pursue a solo career in pain performance art — demanded surrender.

And so ended Day 1 of our month away from home.

Everything went exactly to plan:

Efficient drive Sun Beer Tapas Wine Mild existential reflections about televisions Early bedtime

If this is the opening chapter, Spain, we’re listening.

Stay tuned. I suspect the shoulder has opinions.

(Distance walked 9.8km)