Last Sunday and Tuesday I had two suppers and I missed one in Monday because it would have cost me a fifth of my March earnings.
On Sunday I had supper in the International Barbecue flat. My English friend wanted to practice his Spanish, so I spend the evening with him. His Canadian flat mate — the girl who speaks Catalan — showed up later and cooked some sausages and made a salad. It may sound simple, but she’s a cook and nobody wants to take work home.
The supper I missed was a farewell supper for a girl from the lab — that place I’m supposed to have left and to where they keep making me go back. I felt bad for not being there because she is such a nice girl, but she was at my toaster debut, so it’s okay.
On Tuesday I had lunch with some old friends from the summer village in a humble local bar. We gossiped about our own lives and, of course and more important, about other people’s live.
I had the impression of being in a television show or one of those films in which some friends change their simple childhood for a sophisticated adulthood in the big city. You don’t need to be a mature successful man to feel like one.