Cher and Holly Eat the Atlantic ... It was not Good

PART ONE

Bees Knees has been on hiatus this month because Cher and Holly are traveling again! To that end our stand-by butts needed to be in Barcelona by November 10 in order board our transatlantic cruise, so we made it to Madrid, which is sort of close. The food on the flight was, of course, inedible. The flight attendant described it as “pasta in some kind of white sauce.” It tasted like it had been pre-masticated then regurgitated back up covered in stomach acid. And what the hell is a “lemon blondie brownie?” We left it untouched on our trays like scented urinal cakes. In short, if the plane ever happened to crash in the snow-covered Andes mountains, the survivors would use this food as fuel for a fire before putting it in their mouths, not regretting it for a second weeks later when it would come to cannibalism to survive.

(Above: Holly enjoys a sangria)

So we made it to Madrid! Which is fairly adjacent to Barcelona. When we landed we just spilled out into the unimpressive airport and asked anyone who looked friendly what was the best way to make it to Barcelona that day. Cheryl, by the way, speaks Spanish fluently. She lived in Madrid for a year during college, then more recently had spent 10 years in Nicaragua where she owned a bar called Zooms selling beers to expatriates for a buck apiece until she earned enough cash to buy a house in East Point outright. Sometimes I think she acts all naive just to make me feel in charge, because she is way more savvy than she seems. And other times I think her stubborn naivete simply just survived all her life experiences somehow in order for it to rear its sweet optimistic big-eyed head all the time.

(Above: Cher in Malaga, Spain)

From Madrid we took a bullet train to Barcelona, which entailed much lugging of our luggage, which, to our credit, consisted of just one carry-on bag and one personal item. On the plus side, I personally have learned how to pack six weeks of essentials into one carry-on bag. On the minus side, this means said bag is so heavy it has the density of a dying star. Cheryl’s bag, on the other hand, was light because all she packed was some t-shirts and underwear, knowing she can borrow whatever else she needs from me. We finally made it onto the bullet train. At this point we are at about 24 hours of no sleep. We think. We could be exaggerating because we are old and like to maximize our suffering.

The bullet train was fun! There was a dining car just in front of us that I liberally visited for local cans of beer. As I told you earlier, we travel stand-by, i.e. by the seat of our pants. Cher and I are retired flight attendants. I don’t even make hotel reservations until we are onboard and cleared for the flight over. Because who knows where we’ll end up? The standby party on the list behind us ended up going to Napa Valley instead. It’s very indicative of us airline people to head out for Spain but end up in Napa Valley instead.

Stay tuned for PART TWO of "Cher and Holly Eat the Atlantic . . . It Gets Better, Then Worse, Then Better Again!"

(Above: Cher and Holly in Barcelona. That's the Gaudi Skull House behind us.)

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