Spain.
Barcelona was our first stop.
We stayed in the suburbs of the city at a pretty solid hotel, although I don’t remember the name. What I do remember is that we were within walking distance from the ocean, which already made it feel like we had made a good decision.
By the time we got to Spain, I was already a bit tired from Portugal, so I wasn’t expecting too much. But the sudden transition from Portuguese to Spanish was unexpectedly comforting, even though my Spanish at the time was basically limited to “sí” and “gracias.”
Still, after Mexico, even hearing Spanish again felt familiar in a strange way.
The weather was warm but very comfortable. Once we dropped off our items at the hotel, we immediately took to the streets to see the city.
And I have to say, of all the cities I’ve been to, Barcelona is one of the few places that I think would take very little adjustment coming from Canada.
I would definitely live there if given the opportunity.
First Impressions of Barcelona
At first glance, the city layout felt pretty chaotic. But once we were actually walking through the streets, we started to notice how structured and straight a lot of the alleys and roads were. The antique architecture, mostly solid stone, gave everything this old-world heaviness while still feeling alive and functional.
It had elements of what we saw in Portugal, but the tourism, although definitely present, felt less noticeable.
One of the first things I noticed was how much time people spent on their lunch breaks.
We had gone during a work week, and since I had taken time off, I was still thinking in Toronto mode. So seeing people sitting outside, enjoying wine or beer, eating, smoking, and taking their time around 2 p.m. was surprising.
But honestly, it was refreshing.
At one point, I got lost and started circling the same streets. An hour later, I still saw some of the same faces sitting outside, casually enjoying their meals like time wasn’t actively hunting them.
Coming from Canada, where lunch can feel like a scheduled interruption between meetings, this felt almost rebellious.
Like, wait — people are allowed to enjoy the middle of the day?
Crazy concept. Someone tell North America.
Croquettes and the Joy of Simple Food
During one of our walks, I had the chance to try croquettes.
They were amazing.
And also, so simple.
I mean, at their core, they were kind of like fried mashed potatoes. But maybe it was the atmosphere, maybe it was the city, or maybe Spain just knows what it’s doing, because they were crispy, savoury, buttery, and delicious.
That’s something I started noticing more and more while travelling: sometimes the best food isn’t complicated. It’s just a simple thing done properly, in the right place, at the right time.
Also, frying carbs in Europe apparently hits different.
Visiting the Office Abroad
Because I worked at an international company, I decided to visit one of my company’s offices in Barcelona. It happened to be on the coast side of the city, which was pretty cool.
I didn’t spend too much time there, but one of my colleagues recommended that I try a place called Vicio.
Later in the week, I definitely took him up on that recommendation.
More on that later.
On the way back, I also bought some cigars to take home, because they were cheap there. In hindsight, I should have bought them right before leaving, because they ended up becoming a sad little ball of tobacco in my bag.
The Ocean, the Smells, and the City
The ocean was beautiful, as expected.
But depending on which side or part of the city you were in, Barcelona smelled like either alcohol, salt water, palm leaves, or garbage.
Sometimes all four.
And honestly, that kind of sums up a lot of great cities. Beautiful, alive, slightly dirty, deeply human, and occasionally rude to your nose.
Brendan and I also had some patatas bravas with espresso while we were there.
Patatas bravas are an amazing take on fries. Something about covering potatoes with mayo and spicy ketchup or tomato sauce allowed the rebel in me to pig out comfortably.
It felt classy enough to pretend I wasn’t just eating fries, but familiar enough that my Canadian brain understood the assignment.
Sagrada Familia: Gaudí’s Eternal Construction Project
One of the major landmarks of Barcelona is, of course, the Basilica of the Sagrada Familia.
It’s a massive cathedral that started construction over 150 years ago, designed by the famous architect Antoni Gaudí.
Every year, people say it’s close to being done.
And yet, to this day, still not done.
It makes you wonder if Gaudí predicted it would take this long and was some kind of visionary, or if he too was just a man with a simple request bound to the constraints of the everyday contractor.
Perhaps he wasn’t so different from your neighbour who has been trying to get his drywall or pavement done for the last year and a half.
Anyway, I didn’t actually go inside the cathedral, but I did marvel at it from the outside while defending myself from consistent tourist trappers selling every flavour of rosary known to man.
And from the outside alone, it was stunning.
It didn’t look like a regular cathedral. It looked like something grown out of stone. Like if religion, architecture, nature, and a fever dream all got together and said, “Let’s make something stressful but beautiful.”
My First Paella: Tomato Rice With Seafood
A few yards away from Sagrada Familia, I also tried paella for the first time.
They sat me within viewing distance of the basilica, which made the whole thing feel like it should have been magical. The setting was beautiful, and I thought I was in for a treat.
They served the paella in a round cast iron pan with some white Catalan wine of their choice.
And I must say…
It was okay.
I added some salt, which helped the flavour, but it was not what I was expecting. At the time, I called it tomato rice with seafood in it.
To be fair, I’m not a big fan of seafood, so maybe I wasn’t exactly the target audience for this dish.
This was my first time trying paella, and the experience felt a little dull. Anticlimactic, even.
But what’s funny is that I remember flying home, and for the week after getting back, I had the strongest craving to try it again.
strongest craving to try it again.
So clearly, my body just needed time to adjust and get addicted.
Since then, I’ve had plenty of paella, and I have to say, I’ve fallen in love with it.
But back to the story.
At the time, it was just tomato rice.
Espresso Mornings
Every morning in Barcelona, Brendan and I would start our day with espresso.
Again, espresso is a staple in many countries, especially in Europe. But something about having it while travelling made it feel different.
It was smooth, slightly sour, and had this amazingly soft aroma of coffee.
I wouldn’t drink it as much back home, but when travelling, something about espresso helps kick the day off with the perfect tone.
And stain your teeth instantly.
Nothing says “romantic European morning” like slowly developing the dental shade of a pirate.
Graffiti, Nightlife, and SHÔKO
In our final few days, we walked through the graffiti-spotted artistry of Barcelona and decided to visit one of the better-known nightclubs in the city: SHÔKO.
As two guys, our intentions were pretty straightforward.
Get as drunk as possible, meet some fun people, and ride that luck safely back with our wallets and pride intact.
I also bought some cigarettes from the vending machine outside the nightclub, so with all that ready, we hit the ground running with a few beers and headed inside.
Immediately, it felt like we were back in Latin America, enjoying a festival of colours, lights, and music.
Then it hit me.
I ordered a rum and Coke from the bar. When the bartender came by, I handed her a 20-euro bill.
Innocent and naïve, I waited for her to return my change.
She never did.
I chugged my drink and walked outside, realizing that I had just spent around 30 Canadian dollars on a rum and Coke.
Right on time, my cigarettes magically found their way back to my lips, and I had a smoke.
Becoming the Rose Guy
Devastated by the preceding 20 minutes, I purchased a rose from a travelling salesman in front of the nightclub, a man with a similar complexion to my own.
It was one euro per rose. So after some bargaining, I decided to buy all of his roses.
Because why not?
I then spent the next 10 minutes handing them out to random women I met in front of the club.
No real reason.
At this point, it was simply dawning on me that I had more than 10 roses and needed to get rid of them.
When Brendan found me in front of the club, he started laughing at my very visible play on insanity.
And he came out right in time too.
Suddenly, a woman and her friends from Luxembourg ran over to me and started berating me for selling roses.
She had mistaken me for the earlier travelling salesman.
When I calmed her down and explained that I had simply bought the roses, she apologized vigorously and took a flower.
Then she handed me a giant bottle filled with X.
To this day, I have no idea what it was.
But it was alcohol.
And it was free.
So I drank.
The Hazy Part of the Night
The rest of the night became hazy, but I do remember having a great time.
I don’t know what happened to that group of friends we made, but we did briefly join in on a bachelor party, dance horribly, and stumble around in front of the club.
At one point, we saw either a police officer or a bouncer lay a man flat on the ground with a punch so loud it sounded like a pop.
That is one of those moments where your drunk brain goes completely sober for half a second.
Like, okay.
Truffle Chips, KFC, and Recovery
Afterwards, there weren’t really any restaurants we could take our hungover selves to since most restaurants close early there, so we stopped by a convenience store and replenished with two giant bags of Lay’s Gourmet Truffle chips.
To this day, they are my favourite flavour and brand of kettle-cooked chips I’ve ever had.
We also went to KFC, where we replenished with disposable beer, more bravas, and some chicken that was 10 times crispier than what we get in Canada.
I don’t know what Europe is doing differently with fast food chicken, but apparently, they know secrets.
Laundry, Vicio, and Leaving Barcelona
All in all, Barcelona was great.
The next day, I spent some time doing laundry at a local laundromat in the suburban neighbourhood next door, which was weirdly peaceful after the madness of the night before.
Then we made our way to the high-speed rail station, heading straight to Madrid.
But before I wrap up Barcelona, I need to return to that Vicio place I mentioned earlier.
So, fucking good.
It was like truffle everything, smash burgers, and poutine energy all in one place. And it was cheap-ish.
Insane.
Barcelona had history, beaches, nightlife, food, chaos, comfort, and just enough grime to remind you it was real.
It was beautiful, but not polished to death.
And maybe that’s why I liked it so much.
Portugal made me feel like I was discovering Europe.
Barcelona made me feel like I could actually live in it.
Part Two — Madrid: Red Clay, and Accidentally Seeing Greatness
Madrid.
The train ticket between Barcelona and Madrid was relatively cheap. I think it cost about $80 Canadian at the time, which felt pretty reasonable, especially considering we were travelling by high-speed rail between two major Spanish cities.
When we got off the train, I realized I had not properly understood the geography of Spain.
In my head, Spain was just warm. That was the whole mental map. Sun, tapas, beaches, people drinking wine at 2 p.m., and me pretending my Spanish was better than it was.
But Madrid was different.
What I thought would be another warm city was actually cool, somewhat rainy, and much more city-like, at least that day. The area we stayed in felt cozy and congested, which I know sounds insane, but as a guy who had always aspired to live some kind of downtown New York sitcom life, I found it comforting.
It had that feeling of buildings close together, restaurants tucked into corners, people moving everywhere, and the sense that something was always happening just slightly out of frame.
Like if I turned the corner fast enough, I’d somehow end up in a friend group with rent-controlled apartments and deeply unrealistic free time.
First Taste of Madrid
As we were already accustomed to by that point, we went to a nearby restaurant and ordered the essentials: croquettes, a shrimp po’ boy-type sandwich — or whatever they called it there — and some jamón ibérico.
And I need to talk about jamón ibérico.
Jamón ibérico is a beautiful cured and aged piece of pork leg, sliced thinly and usually served on top of croquettes or as part of different tapas. I liked it much more than prosciutto, which I was never a huge fan of.
It was salty, fatty, nutty, and a tiny bit gamey, but not in a bad way.
Actually, it was really good.
That said, depending on how much of it you eat, I could definitely see how someone could start feeling sick from how rich it is. It’s one of those foods that feels luxurious at first, then somewhere around slice seven your body is like, “Are we aristocrats now? What are we doing?”
Still, as an introduction to Madrid, it worked.
A Tattoo in Madrid
I took one day to go get a tattoo and roam around the squares of Madrid, while also checking out a flea market.
The tattoo was a yin-yang. It was my third tattoo. I wanted something small, and I especially wanted to get it while travelling.
At the time, it felt symbolic. One of those small permanent reminders that I had been somewhere, done something, and was slowly building this map of experiences on my body.
Again, quick lesson: never get a tattoo on your back or shoulder before an eight-hour flight.
It fucking sucks.
There is nothing romantic about fresh tattoo irritation while sitting in economy, pinned between strangers, stale cabin air, and your own poor planning.
The Squares of Madrid
The squares in Madrid were amazing.
They were open, usually with a monument in the middle where tourists would take selfies, and surrounded by what felt like 20 restaurants on every side. Each restaurant would be competing with the next one, selling its own version of the same flavours.
Croquettes here. Sangria there. Calamari over there. Beer everywhere.
I tried to go to the spots with the fewest tourists and the most locals, although sometimes it was tough to tell. Everyone looks confident when they’re sitting outside in Europe. A tourist with sunglasses and a beer can accidentally look like a local if they commit hard enough.
I ordered calamari.
And to this day, I believe some of the best calamari is in Spain.
It has never steered me wrong.
Some nice calamari with a beer or sangria is never a bad choice. And there, the squid wasn’t fishy either.
It was clean, crispy, salty, and exactly what you want when you’re sitting in a square pretending you understand the rhythm of the city.
Football Energy
Another thing I noticed — and later came to regret not fully experiencing — was that we had visited during a Real Madrid vs. Liverpool soccer game.
When walking into the square, you could see it divided by jerseys. One side chanting for their team, the other side seesawing back with their own anthem.
It was awesome.
A kind of patriotism that felt gamified.
I didn’t watch the game because I had no real interest in it at the time, but later I realized it probably would have been great even just for the atmosphere.
So anyway, maybe one day.
That’s one of those travel regrets that isn’t dramatic, but sticks with you. Not because you missed the game itself, but because you missed the energy of a place caring deeply about something in real time.
game itself, but because you missed the energy of a place caring deeply about something in real time.
Sometimes, while travelling, you don’t need to understand the thing fully. You just need to stand inside the excitement for a while.
The Flea Market
I also went to one of the biggest flea markets in Madrid. I wanted to find some antiques, as well as jerseys for my folks back home.
The flea market was nice. It felt old, and that made the finds more worthwhile. You could easily distinguish the fake from the real, or at least you could pretend you could, which is half the fun of flea markets.
An older man in one of the antique shops gave me a lighter and some coins, which I later gifted to my dad.
There was something simple and meaningful about that.
Not every souvenir needs to be big or expensive. Sometimes it’s a small object from a table in a market, handed over by someone you’ll never see again, carrying just enough mystery to feel important.
The Real Reason I Came to Spain
One of the main reasons we came to Spain in the first place — in fact, the primary reason I wanted to visit Europe at all — was the Madrid Open.
For context, a few months prior, I had gotten hooked on a sudden wave of tennis highlights on YouTube.
I quickly learned how to play and, honestly, I was actually pretty good at it.
At the time, one of the most exciting things happening in tennis was the continued heated rivalry between Federer, Nadal, and Djokovic.
The three kings of tennis.
All chasing and matching the 20-grand-slam milestone.
I had never watched a professional tennis match before. So when I learned that Madrid was known for its red clay court, I knew I had to check it out.
We purchased the tickets about four weeks prior for around $90 Canadian. At the time, no one knew who would be playing, so it was really a long shot.
But who cares?
This would be my chance to see professionals play tennis live, and that alone was enough for me.
The Madrid Open
When we finally arrived at the Madrid Open, it was hot as hell outside.
The walkway to the stadium felt oddly foreboding, especially walking alongside all the other tourists.
There was that building excitement where everyone is moving in the same direction and you know something important is about to happen, even if you don’t know exactly what yet.
Once we lined up, though, everything moved relatively fast. After scanning our passes, we were given badges and shown inside the air-conditioned behemoth of a stadium.
Like any stadium, there was food.
There was beer.
And of course, there was merchandise.
As someone who usually stays away from merchandise because the very obvious capitalized novelty makes the inner rebel in me revolt, I thought I wouldn’t be swayed by the pretty colours and high prices.
Turns out, I was not immune.
I purchased a small tennis ball keychain, as well as a hat, as we walked inside.
Consumerism got me.
It happens.
The stadium was much less packed than I initially assumed. We got to our seats, which were relatively close to the court, and most of the seats behind and above us were still empty.
We sat there drinking the beers we had purchased as the sun quickly overlapped the stadium and us with it.
While we waited, I finally checked online to see who was playing.
It was supposed to be Andy Murray and Djokovic.
Two legends of the game.
I couldn’t believe my luck.
Then, minutes later, I checked again and saw they were no longer playing.
To my dismay, the matchup had changed.
But then I saw who was replacing them.
Nadal.
Again, I couldn’t believe my luck.
What I thought would be a cool tennis match ended up becoming my chance to watch one of the greatest tennis players in history — arguably the best — play on his home-country court, on red clay.
I was so excited.
Watching Nadal on Clay
Eventually, the stadium filled up and the players came out.
It was a surprisingly heart-pounding moment for me.
I don’t remember who Nadal’s opponent was, but I do remember how silent the audience became once the match started.
And I mean silent.
You could hear a pin drop.
Back and forth, the sound of the tennis ball echoed through the stadium.
Thwack.
Pop.
Slide.
You could hear each exhale from the players as their sneakers slid across the clay.
It was marvelous.
There was something hypnotic about it. On TV, tennis already looks intense, but in person, the rhythm is different. You feel the patience, the tension, the speed, and the pressure in a way that highlights don’t fully capture.
And as expected, Nadal won.
He finished with his signature uppercut into the sky.
I was a lucky man to see it live.
At the time, I didn’t know he would continue on to win more Grand Slams. I didn’t fully understand that I was watching a living legend in real time, close enough to hear the clay move under his shoes.
That’s the strange thing about moments like that.
Sometimes you only realize later how rare they were.
A New King Rising
We had purchased a day ticket, so once Nadal’s match and the following games were played, we headed back to the hotel.
It also turned out that this was the same tournament where a young up-and-comer named Carlos Alcaraz would go on to beat Nadal, Djokovic, and other major players on his way to the title.
At the time, I didn’t fully appreciate that either.
Looking back, it’s wild.
I went to Madrid hoping to see professional tennis, and I ended up being near one of those moments where the old guard and the new era were crossing paths.
Nadal, Djokovic, Murray, Alcaraz.
All part of the same tournament.
And somehow, I was there with a beer, a little tennis keychain, and the kind of luck that makes no sense unless the universe was briefly feeling generous.
Final Nights in Spain
After that match, we returned to the hotel and had some final croquettes, truffle Lay’s chips, and chocolate.
I also ordered some empanadas and home-cooked food using Uber Eats, mostly because I wanted to see how Uber Eats worked in Spain.
Turns out, nothing different.
Very disappointing from an anthropological perspective.
You open the app, choose food, question your life choices, and someone brings it to you.
Globalization, baby.
And with that, our trip to Spain came to a close.
Barcelona had been warm, chaotic, beachy, colourful, and weirdly livable.
Madrid felt cooler, denser, more serious, more intimate, and somehow more traditionally “city” in a way that made me feel strangely at home.
It gave me food, rain, squares, antiques, football chants, tattoo pain, and the chance to see one of the greatest athletes of all time play live.
Not bad for a city I barely understood before arriving.
Luckily, to offset the sudden depression we would inevitably feel returning to work, we had one more stop left.
An overnight layover in Zurich, Switzerland.
And yes.
It was a Friday night.