Time for Tapas Part 6: Don't Forget to Attend Chursque

The little town of Cordoba is famous for one thing: La Mezquita, an immense mosque that was later converted into a cathedral. A chursque if you will. The hotel is quite cool too, it's built on top of a Roman ruin that's visible through strategically-placed glass floors. Although once Ryan is done with the upstairs you won't need glass tiles to see a ruin.

This is the kind of sitting room that makes hotel proprietors cringe when they see a stroller rolling in the front door.

Dad I'll have the one that's been dry aged half as long as I've been alive.

A centurion on the Roman Bridge seem to have fallen a little out of rank. Surely the first signs of decay in the Great Roman Empire.

What would Caesar say? A little decorum please this isn't Caesars Palace.

So Mommy am I right in assuming this channel uses gravity to convey the fresh-squeezed contents of this tree directly to my bottle?

Let's see, is this the mosque bit or the church bit? I guess we could wait and see which half is on Trump's travel ban.

No kids under 12 allowed says the sign at the foot of the tower, conveniently translated into five languages. Dad will be grabbing that one for the foot of the big bed.

The view is even better when you don't have to lug 30 pounds of squirm up the narrow stone stairs.

Looks like some of the local peasants have stopped by to pay homage to His Magnificence, Dorkchester XIII.

Back at the hotel just in time to make sure none of the other guests get to enjoy the serene courtyard or romantic orange grove either.

Always convenient when the ancient ruins are but a crawl away.

Nice Daddy, finally a mode of transport you can't stall.

The bright lights of Madrid offer a nice change of pace from the rather sleepy villages down south. Especially when you've imported a party animal from London.

Uncle Devan, tell me the one about the little latte that wanted to be a flat white.

The Malasana neighborhood is so hip you'd be forgiven for wondering where the canal with toxic sludge is hiding.

Only in Spain would you find a playground smack bang in the middle of the party street. So kids can watch their parents get hammered from the comfort of their bouncy trains.

In Spain there's no such thing as a night in. It's becoming increasingly obvious why nothing manages to open until late afternoon.

Real men knock back a handful of jellybeans between shots.

Speaking of jellybeans, it's not too hard to figure out where the architect behind Madrid's airport got his inspiration. After all in Spain you don't drink on the job, drinking is the job.