I'm back to the land of the ice and snow.
The bags are unpacked. The regulation-size baggies of trial size creams and lotions have been mostly emptied. As usual, there was much leakage.
But enough bitching. That trip was fun. See here for photos. Yeah, the other blog for those of you who didn't already know.
I'm missing things about Barcelona that I should miss: narrow alleys, cathedrals, cobblestones, the language, eating outdoors, drinking wine, going up hills and looking down, going down hills and looking up. I'm missing things I shouldn't miss: the smell of sewage and cigarette smoke, the buzz of motorbikes, those little plates of little olives.
The hubby misses those little olives, too. Itty bitty ones in a pool of chartreuse. Could be the thing he misses the most. While devouring a plateful one afternoon, he yet again mentioned his olive oil dream to me.
He walks (with his stunning wife) down the narrow streets of a city and stumbles upon a small shop displaying a wealth of bottled olive oils. Upon walking into the shop, he is engulfed by the rich, fruity scent. A lovely young lady asks if he would like to sample a variety of local olive oils. One spoonful after another is passed his way. His mouth, time after time, filled with the luscious . . .He never mentioned that he needed a change of trousers, but I'm thinking he was just a little too embarrassed.
A true story indeed, with just a teeny bit of embellishment.
Luckily, the olive oil made the trip without leaking or breaking.
Wish I could say the same about that damn orange shampoo.