Sunday (Sunday + Euro = Sunday), at 12 pm by a delay of my flight, I returned from London.
I came crawling to me and my suitcase around Madrid, passing thousands of people dressed in red stuck in sources, underground trains whistling, howling police cars, guiris I'm-dancing-epan-epan epan (I told a friend in Lavapiés 300 Cameroonians were dancing to drums until Sun.)
I got home and I could drink a nice cold Cruzcampo after a weekend drinking pints in pubs where all the English papers said they hope to win Spain. In those pubs where Jose took us Soho trying to tapped into a little playing time that we threw to the four corners between Bowden, Portobello, Pub and Quixote's.
Time also shed this weekend and before we know it jumped Friday to Sunday, passing over a Saturday night I had planned to exit Old Street and Stoke Newington and instead ended up in a gambling zone 35 approx with a bunch of undesirables who must have lived in Bowden in a parallel universe and prove again that the plans are a mistake, like giving money to the theater group.
And all the while thinking of the wrong decisions, and come back, because we slept in Greenwich, home of a friend tertiary emigre violinist than seven years ago and those that will not come back and make you wonder why you came back you and if you did the right thing. It ended all too quickly, I went through Marble Arch and Paddington way I remembered when I was out there in a hotel, I was back after many Teacher's. I can still see Jose trying to get on a taxi that refused to boot if I could not pronounce the right direction, while Martin and a tree ...
I got on the plane, after wobbling race on our part because we were late, took off two hours late, at the same time you played the game. I traveled with
head still feeling the lawn of St. James Park to nap time, and thinking back on return decisions wrong, and that London, if you take away the chicken 10 times a week should not be a bad place to live five years old. He was returning
thinking that a weekend at least, well worth missing a Euro is likely going to lose when the commander, I say that with feeling guilty for the delay and ignoring all the international flight, turned on the radio to Paging the plane when he saw that "the child" broke the sound barrier and the Germans.
Then came the goal of speakers throughout the cabin, while the English and we wondered what had happened, but we started to scream, to raise their arms, looking at strangers as old friends and smiling like idiots from a few Japanese and Indian with a turban that looked expensive mixture of bewilderment and anger without knowing nothing.
breathed a sigh of relief thinking right decisions, like going back. At the end of the day, make no mistake, the Brittish this never would have happened ...
