Barcelona, Spain – The blue dot on the map doesn’t budge.
3.14 tapas for the price of one.
It just winks, apprehensively.
Despite confidence we’ve hopped onto the right train from the airport, our lips are curled into question marks. “There’s only one way you can go,” I tell myself. “And there are other tourists aboard.”
And yet, we seem to be circling farther north.
Suddenly, we arrive at Passeig de Gracia station and hurriedly grab our bags. Stepping out into a bustling Barcelona evening, the blue dot finally careens across the screen, marking our real location.
The GPS has awoken from its slumber.
We wander through the Gothic Quarter, which has come alive for Halloween. Men in top hats and long, dark coats lead ghost tours through jagged alleys lit at crooked angles in cigarette yellow. In a small square, a full choir of buskers breaks out in a beautiful rendition of Let it Be.
We settle into a table in an adjacent square for vermut de Reus and tapas, both exhausted from the day and equally giddy at the prospect of patatas bravas, octopus parmentier and a shimmering plate of Jamón Iberico.
Two buskers swing by the table, crooning Valero, expectantly holding out cups between bites.
It's a warm welcome to Barcelona.
