Dramas

A meeting in Barcelona. Fifty folks from around the world discussing the strategy and eating wafers, courtesy of our Franco-Russo-Bulgarian friend based in Vienna.

A dinner in a cellar afterwards. A babygirl colleague gets into a skirmish with a waiter and is asked to leave. She does not know yet, but an innocent episode would change into a personal drama when she’s reported and her promotion is halted the next day.

A small loyal party is leaving the restaurant with her.

As we sit under a pergola in a pub nearby, the weather changes. Phones start a sinister beeping all around. A government alert. Last time I got one of those, it was in Vegas; a violent sandstorm was shattering windows and glass doors across the city. This time around, it’s a flood warning.

Lightning is crossing the skies, yet the mood is great. Leaving in a downpour before midnight to catch my flight at six in the morning, only to learn it’s cancelled. So is the next one. I’m leaving the city after noon.

A single person died in those heavy floods, I learn while taking a walk on a Croatian coast. A colleague of mine. A statistic gets personal in a flash. I know his wife, I know the story. Fuck.

It seemed so ordinary, just a storm, right?

There are dramas — and dramas.

Landing in Warsaw and dining with corporate folks when I get a phone call from an old flame. Satisfying?

More flights, more meetings, more corporate scum. It doesn’t matter.

A few directors have left the company. My stock has vested. I’m playing badminton and renovating the weekend house, soaking in the rays of Indian summer.

I’m hugging my beloved when I meet her in the kitchen every morning. Touching her hand when we’re falling asleep.

I’m content.

Tripping

Some hope for a Euroweekend here and there, and then there’s me, running a constant string of Euroweekdays.

Sipping Rize tea and crunching olives at an Istanbul airport lounge, killing time to move across the continent before midnight. This is one of my favourite cities; I’m leaving after having fun exploring bazaars and practising haggling in the best tradition of Monty Python.

Flight, ride, short sleep, another lounge or two and I’m in Gdańsk. Taking photos of the city which rose from the ashes like a Phoenix, I am more on my own than in a company; I only have a single serious business conversation in two days and nights, dining in a fancy Michelin restaurant overlooking the city. Hope that the message has landed.

I close my eyes and land someplace else again.

Playing badminton and getting to bed early for a week before I’m off again.

Taxi, lounge, flight, Barcelona, taxi, hotel. Paella with shrimps and sangria time. Days seem a bit longer here, summer is still summering, the sun is sunning, and I spend evenings in and by the pool.

One more dinner and I’m off again. Almost. A thunderstorm is thrashing the city and my red-eye flight is cancelled. So is the rebooked one. Third time’s a charm, so I finally fly back across the Alps. Just missed a series of meetings in Warsaw.

It’s cold, it’s autumny, it’s moody and so am I; driven to the office straight from the airport. I’m more tired than I hoped I’d be, but there’s still dinner to attend. Shaking hands, drinking water, eating salmon.

Two more badminton matches and I’m taking photos in Stockholm harbour. A day in the boardroom and an evening playing pool and darts.

Off again. Munching strudel in the lounge at Vienna airport and composing a long list of things to take to and do in Prague. A weekend spa getaway and I’m in Vienna again. And then a lunch in Maribor, a coffee and tiramisu in Trieste and two days and nights on the Croatian coast.

A quick day organising work at my weekend house and back to Barcelona. W, pool, meetings, walks, talks, dinners, drinks.

More flights. More meetings. A fleeting kiss and hug here and there. Phone calls every morning, she’s driving, I’m waking up.

We’ll ride along Highway 1 soon, my love.

Hopefully.

Encore

Landing in Warsaw after a wuthering night in Barcelona. I’m late for pretty much everything but dinner. Small talk with my corporate folks — and then there’s a surprising phone call.

I’m staring at the vibrating watch, puzzled, looking at a photo of her face I saved in the heyday of yesteryear. A call after ages of radio silence. Out of the blue, totally unexpected.

I excuse myself.

— Is everything okay, babe?

It is. She sounds happy and it's friendly. She has moved on, as have I. But maybe the call was the closure we were both secretly hoping for.

She messages me again a few nights later, I’m walking in downtown Stockholm, funny how I remember those details. The street and the direction.

— You are this song, — she’s telling me, — Routines in the Night. That is you.

And she would always be my Natalie Portman from Hotel Chevalier. I made her watch it with me ages ago, she was hardly off uni, a laughing kiddo. My hair was black back then. An unassuming hotel room, I lured her in, made her sit through thirteen minutes of Wes Anderson and drove her back to her dorm. Without a move.

Neither of us could have predicted what was to come.

Enough. Enough now.

Fun

I am getting ready. Since I walked those Arizona trails half a year back, it’s been living rent free at the back of my mind. How much more time would I give it? A month, a year, a decade?

Somehow, I started enjoying the ride a bit more. Taking the pressure off helped. I’m laughing with folks across the continent and I take it easier than ever. The weight is gone.

I mix something about enjoying life and living for a reason rather than being towed by circumstances into conversations. And I’m saying goodbyes like I mean it.

I’ll let them fire me, though. Take the parachute. And until then, I’ll have fun. A lot of fun.