Hola from Galicia, where today’s plan was simple: a nice drive to A Coruña, eat some seafood, maybe a bit of sightseeing. What actually happened? I got lost. Again.
It started fine. Coffee, almond cake, Wordle. Patricia got it in three (of course she did). I overthought mine and ended up staring at the screen like an idiot before finally settling on something ridiculous like PLUMB. Not even close.
Then we did Connections. I was feeling smug, positive I’d nailed it. Paella, gazpacho, Rioja, chorizo—all Spanish food, obviously. Nope. Turns out, they were just Things That Can Be Red.
Patricia wheeze-laughed for a full minute. Bertie gave me a look like even he was embarrassed for me. Great start to the day.
We set off for A Coruña, a city right on the coast—good seafood, history, and, as I was about to prove, a fantastic place to lose your sense of direction.
First stop, the Tower of Hercules—oldest working lighthouse in the world. Romans built it. Still standing. Still doing its job every night. Patricia perched herself on a bench, sketching away, as she does at almost every opportunity. Let’s face it, there’s plenty..
By the time lunch came around, we were ravenous. We fell upon a little seafood shack by the harbour and ordered a mariscada, basically a small mountain of seafood. It arrived looking obnoxiously impressive.
The spider crab was amazing but required effort. I went in with too much enthusiasm, cracked it open… and sent a piece of shell flying straight into my wine glass. Patricia nearly fell off her chair laughing.
Then there were the percebes—gooseneck barnacles. Taste incredible. Look horrific.
I picked one up, went for it, and it exploded. Barnacle juice everywhere. Nearly took out a guy at the next table.
Patricia, obviously, ate hers with absolute grace. No mess. No chaos. Just pure competence, which was frankly infuriating.
With full stomachs and slightly too much wine in our systems, we went for a wander through the old town. And this is where it all went downhill.
Patricia stopped to look at some ceramics. I, for some idiotic reason, decided to “just take a quick look” down the next street.
Within five minutes, I was completely lost.
Every street looked the same—white-galleried buildings, identical alleyways.
Of course, my phone was with Patricia.
I tried retracing my steps. Didn’t work. Asked a local for directions—got hit with rapid Galician. Understood about three words.
At this point, mild panic.
Then I saw a tiny café with an old man watching football on a TV that looked like it predated the lighthouse.
He waved me in. With no better options, I sat down, accepted the espresso he placed in front of me, and did my best absolute worst Spanish.
“Mi esposa… está en un mercado… no sé dónde.”
He nodded sympathetically. Then gestured at the TV. Deportivo La Coruña was playing.
Apparently, I wasn’t allowed to leave until halftime.
Meanwhile, Patricia was entirely unbothered.
She finished her shopping, went back to where she’d last seen me, waited. She knew I’d turn up eventually.
And she was right.
I finally stumbled back, wired on unexpected espresso, now shockingly informed about Spanish second-division football.
Patricia handed me my phone, shook her head. “Did you at least learn something useful?”
“Yes,” I sighed. “Deportivo is terrible this year.”
Bertie wagged his tail like I’d been gone for years.
Lessons? Always carry your phone. If you get lost, do it near a café with good espresso. And percebes are not for amateurs.
On the drive home, Patricia smirked. “Where to next?”
“Somewhere with street signs,” I muttered.
Adios from Spain.
