An annual meeting.
I’m done. Over pretending I enjoy things I don’t. Three days in a boardroom definitely ain’t my thing.
The gang disappears towards the airport; finally!
Off to Parc Güell, perhaps chasing a hit of nostalgia I need; it’s one of the first spots I visited in the city back in a day — when it was still free and readily accessible. It’s 18 euros these days, if anybody cares.
Listening to my old mixes, sitting on a bench surrounded by a touristy crowd, just watching and chilling, oh, it’s bloody beautiful!
Heading back towards the centre when I get a message. Air traffic controllers are on strike in France, people are returning from the airport, flights are cancelled. A beer? A dinner?
I pause for a moment to think it over. I wanted to walk by Barceloneta.
An hour later, I am munching steak and a having a laugh on La Rambla; the gang is back and the night is unexpectedly brilliant.
A pure strike of luck.
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