It was an easy flight from BCN to JFK. Carter and Russ sat with each other in their introvert section and I sat across the aisle with a cute 85 year old mother of 10 and her number seven son who just toured Paris, Rome and Barcelona with his three college aged kids. She had a lot to tell me so it was good we were sitting in that configuration.
BCN is the first world airport compared to JFK. Customs and Immigration was fine thanks to global entry, but moving from terminal four to terminal two was a a third world experience. First you have to take the air train a very short distance, but then you take a tiny elevator to the ground level and walk a thousand yards across two streets and into a building that has no escalator and one elevator the size of a pack n’ play to get up to departures. 
For some reason Carter and I did not have seats so we have to check in again at the kiosk to get a boarding pass to get through security. The machine did not put pre-check on our boarding passes so we had to wait in the cattle line. None of this is good when it is eleven at night your body time.
Since we had a couple of hours we went to get dinner. Breaking ourselves of our Spanish orientation was hard. As our food was placed in front of me I said “gracias” to our server. Carter looked up at the wall behind me and in her jet lagged-used to being in a highly Catholic country-read the posted sign as “resurrection kit” rather than “resuscitation kit.”
I’m not sure how long Spain will stay with us, but I suspect I will be making Gazpacho tomorrow.

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