I can lick my elbow.

No, just kidding. My grandmother was born in Spain, and, after my grandfather died, she returned and now lives there full time. I have visited Spain seven times. Most years, we took other families, and two times other kids went. In 2007, no friends came with me, and I hated it. I was miserable for three weeks in Spain.

Now, I will be the first to tell you that I was an ungrateful brat. After that trip, I refused to go back. But last year, I realized that this summer would be my last chance to go as a minor, and convinced my parents to let my best friend, Blake, come with us. I knew Blake would love it because he had never left the country. 

Needless to say, I was pretty excited. I was confident that having Blake with me would make this the best trip ever. 

Only it didn't start that way. 

Thanks to a bad Subway sandwich that I ate the night before we departed, I suffered through a bad stomach all the way from San Antonio to Barcelona. To make matters worse, my father, who was flying from Minneapolis, was three hours late when he should have arrived an hour before us. 

 

When we arrived at my grandmothers apartments at 3 o' Clock, Blake and I immediately went to sleep only to wake up for dinner at my uncles restaurant at six. Blake was so out of it that he thought we were eating breakfast, and wondered 'Do Spanish people eat chicken for breakfast?'

After the first day, things started to look up. Roses was a quiet town with a nice blend of locals and tourists, most of whom were French. Between visiting Roman era castles, playing soccer with locals, and taking walks on the beach, life was good. I loved playing tour guide and showing Blake the town.  I was actually enjoying myself, even without internet and cable, which was quite a feat, thanks to Blake. He made Spain fun again for me, and together we grew to appreciate the unique culture.