I landed in Barcelona on Thursday at 9:45 a.m., and to say that my first 72 hours were unexpected would be an understatement.

On Wednesday at 7:31 p.m. Eastern Time, I boarded what I thought would be the best flight of my life, ready to make my journey across the Atlantic.

In January, I splurged and booked a JetBlue Mint class seat, and since then, I had been eagerly awaiting the flight’s departure. My excitement intensified a month ago when I discovered that JetBlue had a new culinary partnership with Crowne Shy (a Michelin-starred Manhattan restaurant) and Birdee (a Brooklyn waterfront cafe). 

I looked at the menu beforehand, ready to enjoy the chicken citrus thigh, sweet potato lasagnette and razor clam chowder before falling asleep in my fully reclinable seat while watching The Devil Wears Prada 2.

Sounds amazing, right?

Unfortunately, prior to my departure, I made the mistake of eating what I now suspect was a fateful Italian sub—with chipotle mayo—from a corner market.

At 7:45 p.m., as I was getting settled into 6A and browsing the touchscreen to select my two meal choices, I began to feel not right.

And by not right, I mean extremely nauseous. I immediately thought to myself, “Oh God, please not now.”

But my prayers were not enough to stop what was already in motion. International flight or not, I was going to vomit.

And I did—for seven hours, to be exact. Finally, on my third time getting up to use the restroom, I decided I had no other option but to lie to the flight attendants and tell them I was in my first trimester and experiencing morning sickness.

In my defense, no one EVER believes food poisoning—they would have thought I was hungover or drunk—and nothing else elicits sympathy at 35,000 feet like a pregnant lady.

I even got a couple of congratulations!

I thought the ordeal would take care of itself as the hours passed and we began our descent into Spain.

It did not.

I threw up inside the bathroom at the BCN airport. I threw up outside the BCN airport. I even threw up into my pillowcase in the taxi cab. A new all-time low.

Despite the terrible cab ride, I felt a sense of relief when I arrived at my apartment and dropped my suitcases in the middle of the kitchen. I thought, surely, things would get better from here.

They did not.

I spent another five hours sick, getting to know the toilets and showers in both bathrooms quite intimately.

At 7:00 p.m., I was finally able to keep down water and passed out.

On Friday, I woke up at 10:00 a.m. expecting to feel better. I was frustrated when I didn’t and fell asleep again until 1:00 p.m.

I felt dehydrated, jet-lagged and foggy.

Worst of all, I felt like I was failing at Barcelona.

I mustered up the energy to walk seven minutes to the Temple d’August, returning to my apartment after less than an hour.

But the columns were beautiful, and I felt pleased to have at least done something. Later that evening, I went to dinner at L’Antic Bocoi, located behind my Airbnb.

I ordered a coca with zucchini, mushrooms, onion and cheese and ate one piece before asking for la cuenta.

I went to bed on Friday truly believing that Saturday would be the day I would wake up feeling 100 percent and start living my Barcelona dreams.

Again, wrong. Just wrong.

On Saturday, I still felt absolutely drained and started to fear that I was destined to feel this sick for the duration of my stay.

Despite this, I made my way to the Plaça del Rei Roman ruins, just around the corner from my apartment, to do a little exploring.

Even though I went through the museum a little more quickly than I ordinarily would have—it was pretty humid underground—I felt happy to have made the outing. The best part is that the ticket lasts for six months, so I can go back for a deeper dive.

On the recommendation of my highly unlicensed doctor—also known as ChatGPT—I left the ruins in search of a “suero oral” to address my dehydration and then made my way back to my apartment.

I spent the rest of the evening sipping what tasted like a thicker Gatorade, watching The Deuce on HBO and slowly feeling the magical elixir give me life.

When I woke up on Sunday, I finally felt like myself again.

Looking back, I wasn’t failing at anything. I had arrived in Barcelona and found myself facing something no one expects: being sick in a foreign country.

Despite being jet-lagged and dehydrated, I still managed to see a couple of historic sites, get some fresh air and eat a few bites of a meal I had been looking forward to.

Barcelona might not have greeted me with a glass of cava or the glamorous Mint experience I had awaited for eight months, but my first 72 hours don’t have to define a month-long stay. There will be plenty of time for sightseeing, drinks that linger into the late evening, day trips and everything in between.

Barcelona isn’t going anywhere, and neither am I.