I spent my last day in Spain in Barcelona. I went nuts in the Picasso museum my eyes eating up his sketch pad drawings like tapas. But the real art is not in the museums, but on the streets. Here is just a taste of what my camera devoured.
“I know. I guess I forgot to tell my mom about the topless beaches.”
Nude beaches, legal prostitution and gourmet brown bag lunches. Just a few minor details that my nephew left out of his letters home from his term studying abroad.
I stopped to visit David in Alicante, on my way home from the flipside. This hoity toity resort town is on the Mediterranean, about a two hour train from Madrid and light years from what I imagined his “grueling term abroad” to be.
We consumed all five of the Spanish food groups; wine, ham, sausage, seafood and olives. The tapas were insane, including things not featured in a college dorm cafeteria.
Chorizo sausage, super sized prawns.
And that famous Spanish ham.
The good stuff is from a wild black footed pig that only dines on acorns. I ate until my stomach cried uncle. So I guess foods can be foodies, too.
Yes, there was a lot of fresh fish pulled in from the Mediterranean.
And crazy desserts.
But to my nephew, it’s peanut butter and jelly. No Kraft mac and cheese from the blue box. He gets home made paella every Tuesday and lunches packed by his host mother with chorizo .
Instead of climbing up to the tenth century castle, we did the college thing: we drank beer.
Then afterwards, we repented at the smallest church in Spain.
No thank you.