Barcelona

'You cannot possibly be American; your Spanish is far too good.'

So says our cab driver, Jose Antonio. It's a relief to hear. Truth be told, I had been concerned that my Spanish would be rusty and I would struggle and stumble my way through Barcelona, especially since I learned a South American dialect of Spanish, not true Castellano, as they speak here in Spain. The moment we get into the cab with Antonio, however, I find that conversation is effortless; there is no translation process taking place in my head, no thought required.

Our hotel is the Hotel Condestable, conveniently located in the center of Barcelona. Stepping out of the cab into the bright sun of midday is a sharp contrast to the night spent in a cramped seat in the dark; there are the sounds of traffic, pedestrians crowd the sidewalks. The streets are lined with the colorful awnings of shops and bars. Music pours out from somewhere down the street.

We check into the hotel and let the front desk know that we are expecting luggage, as we were instructed to do by the airport personnel. We take the elevator to the fourth floor, enter our room, and open our windows to a magnificent view of the plaza below us. There are none of the steel bars or other restraints in the windows that you would find in an American hotel; just a ledge and a four story drop to the street below. Lisa and I are both afraid of heights, so looking out and down is a bit of a heady experience.

Despite the jet lag, we cannot wait to explore, so we head out and walk along Las Ramblas, which is a long, pedestrian-only avenue of shops, restaurants, and street performers. We watch, we shop, we eat and drink at one of the outdoor cafes. It is a routine that we will follow for the rest of our time in Barcelona: sightseeing, shopping, eating, drinking.

Back at the hotel in the evening, we inquire about our luggage. It has not arrived. We are told that it could arrive tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. It was last seen at the airport in Madrid, sitting in an airport bar, chatting up a cute carry-on, oblivious to the standby flights it was missing.

This simply will not do. We have the hotel contact the airline, and the airline assures us that we need not worry; they will dispatch security to forcibly drag the suitcase from the bar and put it on the next flight to Barcelona.

With that, we head out for dinner.