It’s funny how you spit a relatively deep thought without expecting others to notice it and someone surprises you a couple of days later.
Last Monday, when the barman told us they were closing in ten minutes, I told my friend that one of the flaws of life is how routine chases you as you grow up — or old — and you need to run from it and look for spontaneity. At the end of the night he proposed to meet again soon.
On Wednesday evening, I was waiting at the agreed place and — while eating a hamburger — I realised he was carrying two motorbike helmets. That was a weird image since he hasn’t got a motorbike. He had hired one and had spent all day riding it. Having threatened him so he would respect my physical integrity, we went up the Tibidabo, a mountain behind Barcelona where I hadn’t been for nine years.
From the top we could admire the moon, the city lights, the far ships in the sea, the hotel W Barcelona — which is said to be designed to merge with its environment to be unnoticed — and the thick smog that covers the city. We could also enjoy the silence of the mountain, only disturbed by the distant murmur of the far and never-stopping traffic.
That was a pretty nice scene notwithstanding. We can just complain about feeling the cold wind at that altitude at thirty-five miles per hour, but it got warmer when we entered the smog bubble again.