11:09 PM. Rob and Kimberly. Her hair is smoothly blown out in celebration of the final leg. He is sporting his usual crest. The clue tells them that there's a church in Barcelona that's been under construction for 124 years. I actually think I might have known what this was if I'd been there, because I have been to Barcelona and I have been to that church. I was in high school at the time, so it was (barely) less than 124 years ago, too. I am, as it happens, not well traveled at all, so when they go somewhere I've actually been, it's always kind of exciting. (Come on, come on... Mall of America! Your clue is at Sox Appeal!) Anyway, Phil explains that just as I would have (hopefully) guessed, they are looking for Sagrada Familia. If you've looked at any Gaudi architecture, which looks to me like melting wax, then you know what this place looks like. They're nice enough not to point out that it's unfinished because the architect was run over by a tram. Maybe that's in the "additional information." Anyway, the clue, Phil explains, is in a park behind the church.
As they leave, Rob interviews that it's "an amazing accomplishment" to be in the final three. Well, without killing each other, that is. And they've only left behind a small trail of vehicles that no longer are operational. Rob collects the extra fee for working the word "amazing" into his comments. They find a lady who knows immediately what church they are looking for. They grab a cab, and Kimberly says that the race has helped her get better at trusting Rob and trusting "his decisions." She is presumably talking about decisions other than the decision to stand around while she gets pelted with vegetables, which I am thinking she still disagrees with. (For those of you who have written to me, the answer is yes, I am planning on launching my own radio show, "Love Is Like Getting Pounded With Tomatoes.") Her hair is very shiny for a month into a race like this. They get in a cab. "Rapido, por favor," Kimberly says in her minimal Spanish, despite the fact that the driver probably speaks primarily Catalan. (A good reason not to choose Barcelona for a place to send high school students who take Castilian Spanish, goddamn bastards at the goddamn exchange program. Not that I am bitter, and not that Barcelona isn't still awesome, and not that I didn't love the 16-year-olds who introduced me to vodka and Fanta or the adorable boy who wanted me to teach him how to pronounce "Bruce Springsteen" like an American.)