Lost in Paella: A Wedding, a Villa, and the Chaos of Travel

When two of your dearest friends announce a destination wedding, excitement levels skyrocket. You start daydreaming about exotic locales, sun-soaked beaches, and glorious seafood. In fact, just thinking about it made me want to pack my bags months in advance. And so, naturally, I did.

Fast-forward to the big day: flight booked for 6 a.m. (yes, a.m.), but who cares? The destination is Spain, and I’d willingly fly at 4 a.m. if it meant escaping the British drizzle. Arriving in Barcelona, slightly delirious but determined, I pick up the rental car. Tara, my loyal co-pilot, is in charge of the tunes, though I remind her that my Lebanese nerves aren’t built for her musical spontaneous excitement—thank you, childhood trauma.

We head to Girona, cruising through Catalonia, and finally arrive at the Castel D'Emporda, a stunning medieval castle with a tower, because of course. Oh, and it features the world’s largest display of a Waterloo reenactment. Why? I haven’t the faintest idea, but it’s Spain, so let’s just roll with it. Fun fact: my sister also tied the knot here, making me a veteran of the grounds and, more importantly, its cuisine.

After a quick change into our swimsuits, it wasn’t so much the beach calling me as the restaurant at the beach. Can Blau is the local seafood mecca, serving up treasures that make the trip worthwhile? Sensible as we are, we order three oysters each to start, topped with lemon, followed by Pan con tomate and artisanal anchovies that could make grown men weep. Just when we thought it couldn't get any better, a grilled prawn platter landed on our table, followed by a black ink paella. It was so divine that I’m convinced angels were involved.

Skipping dessert (cue the self-control) because there was a BBQ later, we managed to save room for the evening festivities, which took place against the backdrop of a sunset and the beats of Lebanese DJ Jana Saleh. Food, drinks, and dancing—honestly, it was a dream.

Day two began with breakfast on the terrace before we headed off to a tiny beach, windy but beautiful, where we lounged and tanned like blissed-out hippos. Lunch at Waves—yes, another round of paella—this time a monstrous version meant for four but fit for ten. By now, I’m ready to burst.

That evening, a small plumbing incident had me invading Tara’s room to get ready for the wedding reception. And what a reception! The Spaniards might have evicted the Arabs centuries ago, but they certainly kept the “feed them until they faint” hospitality. Mushroom risotto that melted on the tongue, poached fish in coconut milk with green apples, and a decadent chocolate mousse to end. I shamelessly devoured my and Dimitri’s desserts, a decision I paid for later on the dance floor. But oh, how we danced.

Just when you think the adventure ends after the wedding, you clearly don’t know my friends. We booked a villa on the Grand Canal in Empuriabrava for five days of pure indulgence. Sadly, I could only stay one night because, you know, the UK’s foreign alien rule. Still, I made it count.

The first night at the villa was a barbecue bonanza. I handled the sides, making banderilla sticks with pickled onions, asparagus, and my signature blue cheese and walnut dip. My friend wowed us with steaks and cumin-marinated seabass, and the next day, he transformed the leftovers into a feast of Sayadieh (Lebanese paella) and steak sandwiches. Of course, I missed it, off on my own early morning adventure.

It all seemed simple enough—just catch my flight. But British Airways had other plans. After torrential rain and two hours of driving, I arrived at the airport to find my flight canceled. In true BA fashion, no one was particularly helpful. Channeling my inner Kristo, who had been featured in the news for similar airline shenanigans, I exercised my rights as a passenger with a little extra sass. Did it help? Barely.

In the luggage hall, my bag, like a scene from a bad rom-com, was doing an endless loop on belt number four while I waited dutifully at belt number three. A comedy of errors. After what felt like an eternity of being shuttled between counters, I decided enough was enough. Time for a bit of pampering. I booked a night at the W Hotel, had a fabulous solo dinner at their Fire restaurant, and gave up on the idea of the spa when I got rebooked for the 8:45 a.m. flight the next day.

The perfect end to a chaotic, delicious, and utterly unforgettable weekend.