Barcelona,
Just the Two
of Us.

Before I get to the breakfast, a quick word on the hotel itself, because it deserves one. The Hotel El Palace is a beauty in the classic old-world tradition, a grand Beaux-Arts building in the heart of the Eixample, all sweeping ceilings, hand-painted murals, gilt mirrors, and velvet everything. The lobby alone was so beautiful it was difficult to leave. Before we left, Tim made sure to get several photographs of the gorgeous hotel bar just in case we ever happen to buy a late-1800s European hotel and need to recreate it from memory. A girl can dream.

There are hotels you sleep in, and hotels you wake up for. The Hotel El Palace is completely the latter, and the proof shows up every morning on a covered patio so flooded with light and greenery it feels less like a breakfast room and more like a secret you have been let in on. (A small insider note: book through a travel advisor, hi, and the whole spread is included.) Cava is included in the breakfast offer. Fruit so fresh it practically glowed, the full European charcuterie lineup, hot options, and the thing that made me feel most here: pan con tomate, served with a little card teaching you the ritual yourself. Toast the bread, rub it with garlic if you are willing to do that work, press an overripe tomato across it until only the skin remains, then sea salt and a drizzle of good olive oil. The jamón ibérico was listed as "optional." Definitely not.

Here is a confession: I am, to my core, a vacation-breakfast person. And you would assume that is about the food, but it isn't. It is about the drinks. Give me a proper breakfast beverage flight and I am the happiest woman in any time zone. At El Palace I got exactly that, every single morning: a glass of sparkling water, a hot cappuccino dusted with cocoa, my pick of fresh-squeezed juices, and, the crown jewel, a glass of cava before we had even set foot in the city. A four-drink breakfast on a sun-dappled patio? Friends, I started every single day with the biggest smile on my face.

If breakfast was the star of the Hotel El Palace experience, our concierge was the secret weapon: enormously, consistently, suspiciously helpful. I almost wondered if they were getting a kickback for everyone they sent out the door. Well, if they are, it is fine. They only ever pointed us toward fantastic spots. On our very first evening we were not handed a print out (ahem, San Juan hotel). Together, with the fabulous concierge, we collaborated on two sticky notes created on the spot to match our interests and a map to find each one. I have Google Maps 😂. I did not need the map. But it made us feel truly helped. Not check-the-box help, real help.

First on his list: La Flauta. It did not disappoint! The standout was a plate of razor clams, grilled and bright with herbs and lemon, so good that Tim spent the entire rest of the trip on a doomed quest to find their equal somewhere else in the city.

Gaudim

Next on our secret weapon's list: Gaudim, filed under "best paella in the city," which made it non-negotiable. Tim is a devoted paella fan, and he had committed to eating it every single day of this trip (he came alarmingly close). We ordered the shrimp paella and were maybe halfway through, politely eating the normal, recognizable shrimp parts, when a waiter clocked what we were doing and gently intervened. He pointed at the heads, told us to fish them out, mix all of it into the rice, and promised, "you won't regret." We did it. Neither Tim nor I could quite make peace with excavating a shrimp head over lunch. 😂

The room was fancier than we expected, all deep red velvet and chandeliers, then cheerfully grounded by wall-to-wall framed jerseys of their favorite fútbol players (and yes, a photo of the owner beaming next to Messi himself). The pan con tomate and the jamón croquettes were quiet stars too. By now you may be sensing a theme: in Barcelona, the bread rubbed with tomato is simply never not excellent.

Peninsular

Now, this one. Peninsular. File it firmly under fabulous. It is itty bitty, teeny tiny, and (did I mention?) TINY, but it is charming, and just plain good. You cannot book it. You cannot call ahead. You simply show up, and one of the two people working the front gives you a wait time: thirty minutes, forty, an hour. All of it measured in Spanish minutes, where time is more of a vibe than a number.

We were perfectly content to post up in the alley and wait it out. Although, full disclosure, that contentment may have had a little something to do with Tim wandering off to a nearby grocery store and reappearing with a couple of beers to sip in said alley. While we waited, I had the genius idea to grab a cute photo of the two of us. A lovely pair of Brits on holiday offered to help, and the gentleman, bless him, also slipped in a solo selfie of himself for us to discover later. We found it. We will treasure it always, he made the blog.

Inside, the place is tiny. (Tiny! I cannot stress this enough. There, I said it twice.) Maybe twenty-five seats. A handwritten menu in Spanish on the wall. And everyone was loud, mostly in Catalan or Spanish, which is precisely how you know you have stumbled into a real one. The whole room felt happy and loose, a crowd of people living their best lives on a Sunday afternoon. And of course, Tim ordered the razor clams. They were good. But not quite La Flauta good. The quest continued.

One of my favorite mornings was our Old Town walking tour down Las Ramblas. I was the happy nerd of the group, soaking up the history of how Barcelona came to be, including the long and complicated relationship between Catalonia and the rest of Spain. The whole city takes on a different texture once you understand a little of it.

My favorite stop was the mosaic everyone tells you to photograph, and for once the "Instagram must-do" earned every bit of the hype. It is called El Petó ("The Kiss"), also known as The World Begins With Every Kiss, created in 2014 by Catalan artist Joan Fontcuberta with ceramicist Antoni Cumella, for the city's tercentenary. The artist invited the public to send in their own photographs, moments of freedom, and the result is 4,000 tiny tiles, each holding someone's private memory. Step back, and all those small moments resolve into one larger image of two people kissing. In the world as it is right now, a wall built from thousands of individual moments of love felt like exactly the kind of thing worth standing in front of.

On that same tour, we passed several of the houses Gaudí designed earlier in his career, including the wild, wonderful Casa Batlló. It was lovely to get the overview all in one go, though there is a trade-off worth flagging: it was not especially in-depth. Perfect for the basics, but if you want to go deeper into the history, my advice is to split these into separate experiences and give each one room to breathe.

Montserrat. We booked a tour that paired the mountain with a wine tasting at Oller del Mas, and we rode the cogwheel train up, which was neat but, in my humble opinion, not a must-do. The real reason we chose this particular tour? It left at 9:45 instead of 8:30. Why on earth would two parents traveling solo drag themselves to an 8:30 departure when that glorious breakfast (and its four-drink lineup) was sitting right there, waiting to be enjoyed first? Priorities.

Our guide, Taiss, was funny and a little irreverent, exactly the energy you want, and she kept us chuckling the whole way up. The mountain itself is breathtaking. We learned about the monks who live up there and approve, and I do mean approve, everything that happens on it. Want to sell a new kind of sandwich? The monks must sign off. They also work all day keeping the place running. We learned about the nuns who live nearby too, many of whom reach 100. The monks, curiously, do not live nearly as long. Hmmmmm.

Then came the local lore. The famous Black Madonna grants wishes, mostly of the fertility variety (thank you, but we are all set on that front), and there is an energy vortex you can stand on for good luck. We covered our bases.

After the history, we got an hour of free time. The options: taste your way through the cheeses, browse the shops, or take the somewhat difficult hike up to the cross at the very top, the one native Barcelonans once made a pilgrimage to at least once in their lives. We had exactly one hour. They said the "shorter" route ran about fifty minutes and the longer one about three hours. I turned to Tim and said, "we're doing the hike, right?" He started in with a hesitant "um, if you...," but I was already walking. Fast. No time to lose, we only had an hour! My pitch: hustle up so we still have a few minutes to shop at the end. Tim, to his great credit, knows that when the overzealous-traveler version of Sarah takes the wheel, the only move is to go along with it. So off we went, at speed.

It was uphill nearly the whole way, and the day was hot enough that I briefly questioned all my life choices. "Whew, how long has it been?" I asked, certain we were thirty minutes deep. "Ten minutes," Tim said. I pressed on, undeterred. And the payoff was worth every sweaty step. The views were stunning, and the brand-new "hiker" identity I picked up on my Utah trip with Andy officially earned itself another badge. The plot twist of the day: we discovered that Tim does not actually love a hike. He got a little nervous near the cliffs and flatly refused to take any fun "edge of the rock" photos with me. No fun!

The hike was the clear highlight. The wine tasting afterward was perfectly nice, nothing to write home about. We took our photos with Montserrat rising up behind us, and the whole day felt like the ideal grown-up vacation day.

Morning · Park Güell

We saw Park Güell on the morning of our final day, before lunch and before the Sagrada Família. But here is the part I am almost embarrassed to admit, being a travel advisor and all: we first tried to visit on our big walking day, and we showed up with no tickets. I am better than this! But somewhere in my brain I had decided we could simply stroll on up. You cannot simply stroll on up.

The funny part is that I was the one who insisted we walk there, and it is an uphill 2.3 mile trek from our hotel. Arriving at the top, sweaty and ticketless, would have been an absolute catastrophe with three kids in tow. But it was just us. So instead of a meltdown, we laughed, and I stood right there on the sidewalk outside the sold-out gate and booked us tickets for the following morning. Crisis averted, dignity mostly intact.

When we finally made it back in, Park Güell was every bit as cool as we had imagined. If you do not know much about Gaudí or his architectural approach, here is my best attempt at describing it: the most distinctive style I have ever laid eyes on. Picture Candy Land meets Russia meets the ocean. A must see (just…buy tickets in advance).

Midday · Madre

Here is a rule I usually live by: be wary of any restaurant sitting directly in front of a major tourist attraction. So when the concierge suggested Madre Taberna Moderna, parked right outside the Sagrada Família, I was skeptical. But by our last day, we had learned our lesson. When the concierge speaks, you listen. We are so glad we did. We spent nearly two hours at a table in the square, the basilica rising up in front of us, happily killing time before our golden hour tour. Our waiter, Carlos, was charming and patient and kind with his recommendations, gamely working with us as we all navigated the language gap together. The food, the seafood especially, was wonderful. The salmon scattered with pomegranate seeds was my favorite bite of the whole trip. Honorable mentions to the fresh fried calamari and the garlic shrimp. A perfect way to pass an afternoon before walking into the most beautiful building I have ever seen from the inside.

Golden hour · the Sagrada Família

A confession that doubles as advice: the Sagrada Família was our very last experience, on our very last day, and that was entirely my own doing. Everything I read screamed BOOK THIS EARLY, and I did book early-ish, but I had my heart set on the golden hour slot, and that narrowed my options. Normally I am a hit-the-big-sights-first kind of planner, while you are still fresh and your feet still love you. But ending here turned out to be perfect.

After our long, lazy lunch at Madre, we met our guide, Jorge, for a small group tour, just the eight of us. I am a tour person. I know not everyone is, but I love the stories and the history, and I did not want to stand inside Gaudí's masterpiece without understanding what I was looking at. While we gathered outside for orientation, learning about Gaudí (the undisputed star of this entire city) and his final, unfinished work, Jorge mentioned that some people walk through the doors and simply burst into tears. How dramatic, I thought.

Then we walked inside.

I did not cry, but for a moment I thought I might. And, I completely understand people who do. My stomach dropped, and a moment later I realized I had a lump in my throat, just standing there looking up. The impossible height of it. The beauty of it. But mostly the color, all that light pouring through the stained glass and washing the stone in gold and red. Golden hour is when the sun sits low (around four, five, six this time of year) and sets those warm windows on fire. It was moving. It was gorgeous. It was the perfect final note for our Barcelona. (We also learned Bad Bunny had been there the day before. We missed him by twenty-four hours. The agony.)

Night · Amar

I went back and forth on whether to even tell you about our last night. In the end, leaving it out felt like a bit of a cop-out. So here it is. For our final meal, on our final night, we chose Amar, the in-house restaurant from acclaimed chef Rafa Zafra, the man behind Estimar, tucked right inside our hotel. And this was Fine Dining with capital letters, in sharp contrast to every wonderful, scrappy, alley-beer meal that came before it. Walking in feels like stepping inside a jewelry box: soaring ceilings, ornate everything, beautiful. After a week of handwritten menus and happy chaos, we felt, just for a moment, slightly out of place. It was also wildly expensive by comparison.

And yet. If you know me at all, you know I am a devoted lover of fancy food, so I am not about to sit here and pretend I did not adore the caviar on brioche toast. Or the cloud of whipped butter. Or the sea bass, cooked to absolute perfection. Or the dessert, which was something like crème brûlée meets French toast with a scoop of gelato alongside. So, fine. I loved it. Who am I kidding?

Before kids, coming home from a trip was sad. The "well, back to the real world" part. Now? Coming home is almost as exciting as leaving. I texted our wonderful babysitter to say the kids could stay up late to wait for us. "Oh, they'll love that," she said. Friends, it was for me.

The big hugs from my big kids are what coming home should feel like for everyone. We traded stories in a happy pile-up: Andy walking us through every roller coaster from his school field trip, Holly reporting back on the aquarium, all of us passing around photos and the little gifts we had hauled home. Seventeen hugs later, we tucked them in, and then we tucked ourselves in. Climbing into bed, the only thing I wanted was for it to be morning so I could go wake up little Lucy.

When I opened her door, she shouted "MOMMY!" and scrambled to her feet, and when I lifted her out of the crib she gave me the biggest hug of her little life. (Lucy is not a famously generous hugger, so I am still thinking about it.) And then, naturally, we were right back into our morning negotiations over which dress is acceptable and whether shoes are, in fact, required. I would not trade a second of it.

I will tell you something I do not always say out loud. Ever since my mom died, life feels magnified. The great moments feel extraordinary. And the ordinary ones, the dress standoffs, the "MOMMY!" from a crib, sometimes feel great too. The sad moments feel sadder, it is true. But I will take the good with the bad, all of it, every time.

Maybe that is the real reason this trip mattered so much. Not the cava, not the razor clams, not even that room full of light. It was the gift of getting far enough away from my everyday life to feel all of it again, and then getting to come home to the people who are my everyday life. The next morning, I dropped Holly at school. "Love you, bye," like always. Then she stepped out of the car, turned back, and gave me the little heart-hands sign. And that was the whole trip, really. We go far, we see the most beautiful things in the world, and the most beautiful one is still standing at the curb, making a heart with her hands.

A quick and very heartfelt thank you to my people, because none of this happens without them. To my sister, Ashley, who drove all the way up from Virginia to spend her Memorial Day weekend wrangling my three kids 🤍. To my sweet local friends who made sure Andy got to his baseball games and back home safely. And to Andrea, our amazing babysitter, who navigates the daily lives of my children as well as I do, playing referee to Andy and Holly and somehow getting all three where they need to be before 9am. This trip simply would not be possible without the peace of knowing my littles are loved and looked after while we are away. 🤍