Indoor BBQ, Big Dreams: Bumbly, Lyra & Steve Pick Barcelona

The indoor BBQ smelled like caramelized onions and sweet smoke trapped politely under a humming extractor hood. Heat fogged the window just enough to make the outside world look like it was already far away—exactly the sort of illusion that made planning feel easier.

Bumbly sat angled toward the counter in his power chair, straw parked in a tall drink like a little flag of readiness. He listened more than he spoke at first, letting the sizzle and the chatter braid together. Steve—lazy grin, fidget paws—kept glancing between the tongs and the calendar as if both might suddenly try to escape. Lyra, bright and unstoppable, had her phone out and her snack holster stocked like she expected the planning session to require emergency rations.

They started, as they always did, with reminiscing.

A tiny highlight reel: curb cuts found in the wild. A hotel elevator that didn’t lie. A street that looked impossible until it wasn’t. Steve added commentary like a sports announcer, and Lyra stitched the whole thing into a “we can absolutely do this” quilt with her voice.

Then she dropped her suggestion like a postcard onto the table.

“Cambridge,” Lyra said, eyes glittering with academic-romance energy. “Rivers, old buildings, cozy cafés. The kind of place that makes you feel clever just by being there.”

Bumbly’s grin arrived late, cautious. He liked the idea—he liked most ideas, in theory—but his body kept receipts. “Only thing,” he said, careful with the words, “I wasn’t really thinking… flying.” His gaze flicked to the calendar again. “More car. Or train.”

Steve, already halfway into a mental packing list, nodded like that was a completely reasonable boundary and not a plot twist. Lyra didn’t argue. She just pivoted—connector-in-chief—toward options: routes, breaks, snacks, the shape of a trip that didn’t cost three days of recovery.

And then the calendar did what calendars do best: it humbled them.

When they finally found a clean little pocket of time, it wasn’t summer. It wasn’t even late spring. It was early spring—thin light, unpredictable skies, the season that couldn’t commit to being kind.

Bumbly pulled up a forecast anyway, because hope was not the same thing as evidence. The screen filled with chilly icons and numbers that made his shoulders tense. He pictured cold hands, damp air, and that specific kind of weather that turned “accessible” into “accessible, but annoying.”

He didn’t say no. He just went quiet in a way the others had learned to respect—processing, weighing, protecting the future version of himself.

“And…” he added, finally, tapping the phone, “old cities can be… a question mark.”

Lyra’s face softened—not pity, never that—just practical care. Steve made a sound that translated roughly to: Valid. Next?

That was when Lyra, with the confidence of someone who could conjure community out of thin air, said, “Okay. New idea.”

"Barcelona."

The word landed warm. Sun-warm. Brick-warm. The kind of warm that made Bumbly’s ribs loosen like someone had quietly unknotted them.

Bumbly blinked, then laughed once, surprised at himself. Barcelona had been living on his bucket list like a dare—filed under someday, which was dangerously close to never unless someone brave and organized dragged it into soon.

Steve leaned in. “Barcelona is a ‘terrace with a drink’ city,” he declared, like he’d been personally appointed to recognize good ideas on sight.

Lyra was already scrolling, thumbs fast, snack holster shifting as she leaned over the counter. “Okay, listen,” she said, and angled her phone so they could both see. “There are wheelchair travel guides with real details—beaches, ramps, transport, the works.”

Bumbly’s smile held… then hesitated. The old boundary still lived in him: no flying, if we can help it. He tapped the edge of his drink with a fingernail, thinking through the distance, the time, the fatigue math.

“Train or car,” he admitted, voice careful, “I don’t really see that as an option for Barcelona.” He looked up at them, honest in the soft light of the kitchen. “It’s just… too far to grind through.”

Lyra didn’t interrupt. Steve didn’t try to sell him a fantasy route with twelve perfect rest stops. They both waited, which was its own kind of support.

Bumbly exhaled—slow and decisive, like a door opening.

“But,” he added, and his grin returned with more commitment this time, “I’d accept flying… for the warmth. For the south of Europe. If we’re going to bend a rule, I’d rather bend it toward sunshine.”

Steve’s face lit up with instant relief, as if someone had finally taken the weight off his mental luggage scale. “That,” he said, lifting the tongs like a tiny trophy, “is the most reasonable rebellion I’ve ever heard.”

Lyra’s eyes softened—not pity, never that—just satisfied, practical joy. “Then we plan it the smart way,” she said. “Energy pacing. Comfort logistics. And we make sure the access is real.”

They found Cory Lee’s Barcelona wheelchair access guide and started reading it like it was a treasure map—less dreamy adjectives, more the kind of information that kept a trip from turning into a troubleshooting marathon. Streets that could be rolled. Places that weren’t beautiful at the expense of your body. Notes about where the charming old-city vibe stayed workable, and where it got bumpy enough to matter.

Then they hit the part that changed the air in the room: beaches, described with ramps and wooden walkways that reached toward the water—access that didn’t stop at the edge of the sidewalk.

Lyra made a small sound of victory. Steve grinned like someone had just promised him the world’s most accessible snack bar.

They skimmed transport notes too—taxis, accessible options, ways to reduce waiting. Bumbly’s shoulders stopped creeping upward. The trip didn’t feel like a gamble anymore. It felt like a plan that could be built with intention.

They didn’t iron out every detail. Not tonight. Tonight was for choosing the dream first and letting the admin catch up later—because sometimes the order mattered. Sometimes you had to pick joy before you could pick the hotel.

Steve lifted his glass. Lyra lifted hers. Bumbly rolled forward just enough to clink without stretching too far.

His paw brushed the calendar when he reached, leaving a faint, smoky grease pawprint right on that early-spring square—an accidental signature that felt strangely perfect. A promise stamped into paper: Barcelona is real now.

“To Barcelona,” Lyra said.

“To bending the rules toward warmth,” Steve added.

Bumbly smiled, straw bobbing as he took a sip. “To sunshine we can actually reach.”

And for a moment, the indoor BBQ, the calendar, and the whole future trip tasted like salt-air daydreams—close enough to feel on the tongue, even from a kitchen in winter.