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Reus, rain, rejection and Pisco Sour
“We had planned two whole nights in Tarragona just to soak up the Roman ruins — and then saw everything in one afternoon. Classic overachievers.”
With a day to spare and nothing left to conquer in Tarragona, we did what any self-respecting traveller would do: pointed the car at a dot on the map 15km away. That dot was Reus, the proud hometown of one Antoni Gaudà — and honestly, if you were born in Reus and grew up to design La Sagrada FamĂlia, we say fair enough.
Parking was painless, the old town was pleasant, and the covered market was lively. There were interesting buildings. We walked several kilometres. We admired things. It was, by all objective measures, a lovely morning stroll that absolutely did not require two nights of accommodation to justify.
Verdict on Reus: delightful, digestible, and done before lunch. GaudĂ would have approved of the efficiency.
Back in Tarragona, the plan was elegant: amble down to the Serrallo port district, find the much-lauded recommended restaurant, eat gloriously, feel smug.
The universe had other plans, and they involved rain. Not polite drizzle. Rain. The theatrical kind. We walked downhill for thirty minutes in it anyway — because we are not the sort of people who let weather win — and arrived at the restaurant at 1:30pm, which in Spain is roughly the equivalent of showing up to a dinner party at 4am.
The restaurant was already full. Packed. Rammed. Every person in Tarragona had apparently received the same recommendation and had also decided that 1:30pm was their moment.
“Apparently I was not the only one to get a recommendation for the place.” — an understatement worthy of a Roman senator.
We pivoted to a neighbouring restaurant with the dignified flexibility of seasoned travellers. The food was, in the author’s own measured words, “quite mediocre.” But food was had. Drink was had. The rain softened to a drizzle for our walk back uphill, which — given the circumstances — felt like a personal apology from the sky.
We returned to the hotel in good spirits. This is either a testament to resilience of character, or evidence that the wine was better than the food.
The afternoon nap restored us to full cognitive function, which the author immediately deployed on extremely important research: finding a cocktail bar. 800 metres away, The Red Lab awaited — pleasant atmosphere, friendly service, excellent cocktail menu.
The drink of choice? Pisco Sour. Twice. Each sip apparently capable of transporting one directly to Santiago de Chile and the ghost of business trips past. A reminder that the best souvenirs aren’t things — they’re drinks that taste like memories.
Dinner was skipped entirely. Some evenings, two Pisco Sours and a good cocktail bar are a complete and satisfying meal. No one can prove otherwise.
The Red Lab: 10/10, would dodge a mediocre lunch again just to deserve it.
And so ends Day 22: a day that began with Roman ruins, passed through mediocre fish, climbed a hill in the rain, and finished with Chilean cocktails on the Costa Daurada.
More kilometres tomorrow. The car awaits.
I do it my way 