We took the train back home, where at this point, I ran out of fucks to give about being polite to anyone around me. I ran over old ladies and slammed into anyone that didn't get out of my way when trying to exit the train. Yes, it was a dick move, no, I don't care.
We got back to our jellyfish mecca and changed. We had decided to pool all of our remaining euros and have the most expensive amazing final dinner in spain we could find, hopefully involving steak.
I somehow convinced tracey that wearing my heels was a good idea because we were only going to go just up the road to placa mayor, a place we had stumbled into when we first arrived and was filled with restaurants on all sides of the square. As it turns out, however, I am terrible at navigation and it was much, much farther than we had remembered and her feet had swollen to equal the size of mine. We also forgot about the spanish golden hour for dinner, which means you can't find anything to eat past 10PM. We found the square by asking someone on the street "donde esta placa mayor?" and just going in the direction they pointed since we couldn't understand their directions, then asking another person and going in the direction they pointed and then asking again.
As soon as we arrived (and ran into the damn golden goat man), we browsed the menu at the stand in front of the first restaurant, where they told us that the entire square would stop serving food within the next 10 minutes and so we should just sit. We ignored his advice, and walked to the next one, and then the next. Each time, the hosts would be obnoxious and we'd move on, telling them we were looking at all the menus first. By the time we got to the end, the 10 minutes had passed, and it turned out that first guy was totally right. We had decided that all the menus were roughly the same and so we'd just eat at the place that had the nicest host. As we sat, they told us no food even though they were still bringing out plates to others sitting down. Shit. Ok, next one. No food. Dammit!
We had no choice but to settle on the only remaining restaurant, museo de jamon. The museum of ham. Which also had the worst menu of the whole bunch. We were sad, and browsed the menu dejectedly. Tracey and I were really set on steak, and the ham museum had precisely none of it on the menu. I asked Tracey if she was OK with this, and she said "yeah...I'll find something." I told her, "this is the last meal here. Don't settle. If you don't want it, we will find something else in the city."
Obviously, the decision was to leave. Unfortunately, the waitress chose that exact moment to come over and try to take our orders. I jumped up, yelled, "sorry! An emergency just came up! I'm so sorry" and we literally ran out of the square until we were out of sight. Tracey's feet were dying thanks to cobblestones, and the clock was ticking to find a place fast. Restaurant after restaurant had stopped serving food. Finally, in the placa del sol, we saw a little place on a side street that looked nice, had great steak on the menu, and was still serving. Hell yeah!
And so we sat, and waited. And waited. And waited. The waitress even looked in our direction several times, but quickly looked away. We realized they might just be drawing it out so they didn't have to take our order and therefore didn't have to make us food. Fortunately, the drink guy had come by and given us fantastic rum and pineapples with ron barcelo and so we were well on our way to drunk and didn't care that much.
Eventually, our meals arrived. Tracey and I split the most expensive steak we could find on the menu, and Ang ordered some ravioli in a truffle sauce. We didn't even speak. We just shoveled food in our mouths, moaning around the bites. It was so, so, so good and worth every damn penny. There was some dipping sauce for our steak, some bread, and I also swirled the steak around in Ang's truffle sauce. It was everything we had ever dreamed of and more. I don't even remember the name of the place, it was fate.
Tracey and I swapped shoes so she wouldn't have to wear my heels anymore, and we made our way back to the hotel. We had the bottles of wine from Toledo, and the leftover salt from the night prior. We drew up a foot-soaking bath and polished off the first bottle of wine in no time. We still had my rose bubbly , though, and no room for it in the suitcases. Problem was, it was corked and we had no bottle opener.
Angie's solution was to go to the front desk of our super-fancy hotel in our (tiny) pajamas and ask for a bottle opener. Half-drunk, it was a solid plan. The two of us walked up to the front desk like we owned the place and Ang thrust out her bottle, made corkscrew motions at the top of it, and said "necesitoooo?" and the guy laughed and another ran off to find out a corkscrew. They opened it for us and complemented us on our choice of wine and told us it was better cold.
And so, drunkenly, we all packed our suitcases one last time passed out sometime deep into the morning.
