Barcelona

We arrived in Spain on Friday.

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In some ways, it was a leaving party for PG, who was headed for South Africa for three years.  In other ways, it was just a relief.  We were all dealing with separate brands of grief, and sometimes, it was nice to be around others wading through the shitswamp.

I hadn’t been to Barcelona since I was 16, sitting on the edge of the Olympic Harbour, wondering what came next.  That was so long ago, and somehow, I knew more then than I seemed to know now.

Well, maybe not.  But I knew at least as much then as I know now.

Back in present-day Barcelona, we were on a weekender, and eee and her friend were to share a room, and PG and I were sharing a room.

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PG and I had the comfort level and snark of siblings, so sharing a room was rather uninteresting.  We drew the black-out shades and settled in for a Friday night slumber, due to meet with eee and her friend at 9am on Saturday morning.

At some point in what we perceived to be the middle of the night, there was a pounding at our door, and we both awoke with a start — convinced something horrible had happened next-door.  I ran to the door in my nightshirt; PG sat up and grabbed his phone.

I found eee at the door, fully dressed.

What time is it?? I demanded, What’s going on?!  PG and I were both convinced it was 230 in the morning and we were under siege.

It’s 930am, she smirked.

We had drawn the black-out shades, and were absolutely exhausted.  I had somehow shut off my alarm.  We had greviously overslept.

After eee finished having a good laugh at our expense, we retreated to dress quickly and join them for breakfast and a day on the town.

The moral of the story here is that you always know more than you think you know when you are young, and never, ever draw the black-out shades in a hotel room when you are jetlagged.

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