“Eric, no puede dejar su bici aqui!” I hear, barely conscious. Rinaldo, my diminuative landlord, is tromping around my little flat having a hissy fit about the bike I bought yesterday. I pull the blankets over my head and hope he will go away. Only three days ago I was banging out overnight ER shifts in the hole known as Newburgh.
It has to be early, right? I think I was drinking last night. There’s light outside. My watch says 11 am. My Spanish class starts in two hours. Oh, yes, I was in the bar. Gran Foc, just off Plaza Catalunia, burnished brass and crushed red velvet. Antony was playing the trombone, and Martin was on the guitar.
My housemate, Berta, walks into my bedroom. She’s a German girl here in Barcelona studying in the university. “Don’t worry, he’ll get over it. Want some breakfast? I’m making tea.” She disappears into the kitchen, only a few steps from my bed.
Ugh.
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