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500km, one shoulder and the sacred Spanish lunch hour

I woke up with my shoulder still auditioning for a tragic opera, but with slightly less commitment to the role than yesterday. Progress! After a lightning-round shower and a coffee so fast it barely had time to emotionally support me, we located the car park and pointed the car south for a casual 500km road trip. You know, the kind you do when you’re feeling chill and don’t mind your spine questioning its life choices.

Escaping Barcelona on a Sunday morning was suspiciously easy. No traffic. No chaos. No dramatic honking symphony. It felt illegal. The motorway was similarly empty, like the rest of Spain had collectively decided, “Nah, today we nap.”

The original plan was to stop for lunch around Valencia, but time did one of those cinematic montages where suddenly you’re basically at Alicante wondering how your life got here. A few kilometres later, we rolled into El Campello, parked next to the only beach restaurant in sight (which is both convenient and emotionally reassuring), and sat down for a “late lunch.” Or, as the Spanish call it: lunch. Right on schedule.

From our table, we could actually see the building where our apartment lived, casually staring at us like, “You done with your food yet or what?” Armed with video instructions from the landlady (featuring thrilling content like “press this button” and “no, the other one”), we made our way up to the 8th floor to inspect our new kingdom. Then it was back down, relocate the car to the building’s car park, and haul approximately 47 suitcases upstairs, each one heavier than the last because that’s how physics works on holiday.

Next came the emergency shopping run, which included:

• 1 bottle of gin
• 1 bottle of whisky
• Bread and cheese (for legal nutritional purposes)

A “proper” shop was postponed to tomorrow, because today was clearly dedicated to survival, not responsibility.

Back in our new home, a windstorm kicked off outside like nature’s way of saying, “Congrats on arriving, now stay indoors.” Which we did. The gin was opened for aperitif (culture), followed by snacks for dinner (more culture), and an evening of semi-watching random things on Netflix (peak intellectual activity).

After a couple of generous whiskys and the long drive, I felt the powerful call of the bed. I think I fell asleep instantly. Like, lights out, soul gone, loading screen appeared. Day 2: conquered.

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