Letter from Barcelona: A Sun-Soaked Reunion of Resilience, Friendship, and Tortilla
After seven years, a divorce, a baby, and a cancer battle—two friends return to Barcelona, their hearts brimming with joy, to reclaim their friendship, one rooftop siesta at a time.
They say time heals all wounds, but they rarely mention that it also packs your carry-on, books your flights, and drags you across Europe for a reunion seven years overdue. There we were—Rand and I—two weathered souls, bound by shared experiences, armed with SPF 50 and a Spotify playlist, landing in Barcelona after surviving a pandemic, a marriage, a divorce, and a rather rude brush with cancer (which, I must proudly say, Rand defeated with more grace than Serena Williams at match point).
Our HQ for this escapade was the Duquesa de Cardona, a hotel perched above the marina like a retired duchess with a fondness for cava. The room was—how shall I put this—compact. You could brush your teeth, open your suitcase, and answer the door all without taking a single step. But who cares? We were there to sleep, shower, and honour the sacred Iberian ritual known as the post-lunch siesta, a time when the city seemed to slow down and the streets were filled with the sound of gentle snores.
The rooftop terrace, however, was our sanctuary. By day, we shuffled up like sun-seeking lizards, collapsing into loungers with cold drinks and even colder toes dipped in the pool, which was less of a pool and more of a glorified ice bucket. But in that heat, it felt like holy water. Breakfast was a daily celebration: Spanish tortilla, rocket-fuel coffee, and a slow unravelling of whatever dreams had visited us during the night (usually involving seafood or badly-behaved exes).
Ah, yes, the food. Let’s talk about Barcelona’s supposed culinary heaven. With a few exceptions, I’d call it purgatory—tapas purgatory, where pan con tomate is soggy, seafood is abused, and paella is a salt lick masquerading as dinner. One establishment (which shall remain nameless but has been recommended by everyone from taxi drivers to Tripadvisor’s ghost of 2015) served us a dish so overcooked I wondered if the prawns had been punished.
But, because I’m not a monster, let me offer my gratitude to Madre Taberna Moderna—a gem tucked near Sagrada Familia, where every bite was simple and exacting, like a poem written with a knife. Also deserving of praise: Botafumeiro, the kind of old-school seafood restaurant where waiters wear white coats, the sea bass is fresher than your beach tan, and the wine list could double as a novella.
And then there was La Boqueria. Oh, Boqueria. We wandered in with no plan and loose intentions, only to be instantly seduced by the cathedral of colour and smell. Fruit piled like sculpture, jamón hanging like relics, and sweet stalls peddling candied things that looked too pretty to eat (we ate them anyway). We eventually found a seafood counter near the back, slid onto stools, and ordered a platter so generous it needed its own zip code. We dove into it wordlessly, like synchronised swimmers of hunger, and 40 minutes later emerged—silent, greasy-fingered, and happy as hippos. No Michelin star required, just salt, lemon, and the shared understanding that this, this, was why we came.
Sightseeing was a mixed bag, mainly because we forgot that Barcelona is not, in fact, waiting for you to get your act together. Pro tip: if you want to see the Sagrada Familia from the inside, book your ticket approximately three years before you’re born. We admired it from the outside at night, lit up like a cathedral in a fever dream, and cursed our poor planning.
We did manage a cloudy morning visit to Park Güell, Gaudí’s beautifully failed attempt at a luxury residential development turned city park. It’s whimsical, colourful, and would’ve melted us alive on a sunny day. We splurged on the extra ticket to tour Gaudí’s former home, where he lived with his quirky furniture and martyr-like hair. When the crowds rolled in, we did what two introverts do best—we fled. Across the city and up a hill to the Joan Miró Foundation, a calm, airy space filled with colour and imagination. Cultural quota: complete.
The sea claimed the rest of our time. For three glorious days, we packed our bags with books, snacks, and clip-on speakers, then marched down to Barceloneta like beachside sherpas. We squatted under parasols, playing our Barcelona Sun & Sangria playlist —a collection of upbeat Spanish tunes and mellow melodies that perfectly captured the essence of our trip —on loop, and floated in and out of conversation like two women who understood each other’s silences. Because honestly, nothing tests a friendship like a whole week together—except maybe a heatwave and a seafood allergy—and we emerged not just intact, but stronger.
Ghannouj: Barcelona Sun & Sangria
There’s something miraculous about spending time with someone who knows your energy, your rhythm, your ebb and flow. Who doesn’t flinch when you say “let’s not talk right now” or “can we just sit here and stare at the sea?” That kind of friend is not just a travel companion; she’s a lighthouse.
So no, this wasn’t the most culturally rich or gastronomically perfect trip I’ve ever taken. But it was a pilgrimage, in its own chaotic, sunburned way. A celebration of survival, of sisterhood, of two women who’ve weathered the storm and still packed their bags for the sun.
And for that, Barcelona will always have my heart—soggy paella and all.