I have been alone in Barcelona for about eight hours, the last three of which were spent sleeping in my little hotel room. It’s 8:30 P.M. and the sun is still fairly high in the sky, thanks to the absence of daylight savings time. My room overlooks a paved and red-painted play yard. Right now there are several teenage girls on old-school rollerskates out there, practicing their moves and wearing identical blue skating skirts. It’s really warm here. Those fleece-lined track pants felt so right in the Sam Adams bar at Newark, but became so wrong at the Barcelona taxi stand.
I was sick on the flight from Newark to Frankfurt. Which part of whiskey, Ambien, gin and red wine do you think was the problem?
Young men and women in Barcelona have made a real commitment to the mullet. It’s hard to say whether they’re being ironic or earnest.
I guess I’ll go out and get some dinner soon. I have already had one great meal, at a nondescript tapas bar. We should serve patatas bravas, to go with the cava, at our wedding reception. We should come to Barcelona for our honeymoon.
I know I am supposed to be excited about being here, but I would like nothing better than to be sitting on the couch with you and Gilbert the cat, watching basic cable and eating falafel.