Touchdown in Barcelona!
Oil Rigs, Over-Tired Kids, and Barcelona Buzz
We’re here.
After months of logistics, spreadsheets, and packing cubes, we finally touched down in Barcelona!
The flight over was a tale of two halves. The first leg to Singapore was easy - a day flight where we managed to stay awake and keep the peace. I spent most of it talking to a woman sitting next to me who works on an oil rig near Broome. She told me about the two-hour helicopter commute she takes just to get to her “office” in the middle of the ocean. It’s funny who you meet when you’re suspended at 30,000 feet; I now know more about oil rig life than I ever expected to.
Singapore was our reset point. We found a corner of the food court, plugged in the devices, and let the kids burn off that frantic “stationary energy” before the long haul to Spain.
The second leg was harder. While the kids eventually drifted off, sleep wouldn’t come for me. My seatmate was a lively Filipino lady heading to Barcelona for a cruise. She’d had a nightmare with her bookings. Originally set for business class with Emirates, she’d been bumped and rerouted onto our flight due to the turmoil in East Asia. She’d paid double the price for an economy seat, and she wasn’t shy about her frustration. We sat in the dark of the cabin, her venting about airline logistics while I stared at the flight map, waiting for the Mediterranean to appear.
The best parts of the journey? Walking.
Walking past the crowds at the baggage carousels, bypassing the wait and the low-level anxiety about lost luggage, and heading straight for the exit. Straight out. Our 35L packs felt like a superpower. We were on the Aerobús (€7 each) and heading toward Plaça de Catalunya before most people on our flight had even spotted their first suitcase.
By the time we reached the city centre, the kids were fading… Fast. We had that classic “nearly there” hurdle where we realised we had to trek down the street to a separate reception to register passports and grab keys. I stayed in the lobby, acting as a human pillow for two exhausted kids, while my husband did the paperwork run.
Our apartment is a little sanctuary: one bedroom, a sofa bed for the kids, and a tiny kitchenette. It’s all we need.
Trying to get everyone to have a nap was a battle. That particular brand of five-year-old exhaustion, where sleep becomes the enemy, made an appearance. Eventually, we all crashed for five solid hours and woke up with that disorienting but thrilling realisation: we’re in Spain!
While the boys went out to a basketball game, booked months ago, my daughter and I went for a wander to Plaça de Catalunya. Compared to Melbourne, the city feels electric. Even at 10°C, the city feels warm with energy: street musicians, crowds, movement everywhere. She spent the afternoon chasing birds by the fountains and listening to street music, wide-eyed at the fact that everyone around her was speaking Spanish.
”Can we come back tomorrow?” she asked.
That’s the goal. We’re taking it slow. No pressure, no rigid schedules, just gentle walks and letting the jetlag settle.
Tomorrow, we’ve got a tuk-tuk tour booked for a soft introduction to the streets.
For now, it’s takeaway dinner and hoping for a full night’s sleep.
The adventure has officially started.
