Category Archives: good old times

Time Warp

“Monotony collapses time, novelty unfolds it”
-Joshua Foer

Pfff, what a week. Or should I say “month”? I’m not sure, really. Since I moved to Copenhagen, I seem to have stepped into some sort of parallel universe where time moves slower than usual. Way slower. This apparent warp of my phsychological time makes a lot of sense, of course, particularly after reading Joshua Foer’s “Moonwalking with Einstein.” In the book, Joshua talks about his friend Ed’s quest to expand subjective time by trying to remember more, and the logic behind his theory, that “the more we pack our lives with memories, the slower time seems to fly”, comes to explain why the tempo at which I have experienced time’s passage over the last couple months seems to have lagged.

So much has happened over the last few weeks, so many life experiences have been gathered, that my network of chronological memories has been packed to the point in which it makes time magically expand. And that’s a good thing. For starters, I went on a ski trip to the Italian Alps, one in which my plan right from the beginning was not to ski at all. I know it sounds counterintuitive at first, some people might even say it’s plain stupid, but let me just ask you something: Have you ever spent 4 days in a wooden hut at 2200m with nothing else to do but sitting in front of an amazing snow-covered mountain, drinking fine coffee, eating wonderful homemade cake, reading a book during the day and getting totally drunk at night? Well, I have and I can assure you it’s one of the best things you could ever do in your life.


I knew this trip was going to be very special the moment I stepped into that little hut and found a charming blue-eyed italian girl behind the bar and Led Zeppelin blasting through the speakers. I rolled down my jacket’s zipper to reveal my Zeppelin t-shirt, smiled at her and said: “I like this place already.” She smiled back, and so did her friends sitting at a table next to me. Five minutes later, we were all having cake and drinking hot wine. It was fantastic. While I was on the Alps, I also realised how rare it’s to find myself with an blank to-do list. No e-mails to reply, no dirty clothes to wash, no dinner to cook, no series to catch up with, no bus to get on to go to work, no meetings to attend, no food to buy at the grocery shop, no calls to make, nothing. I could only handwrite, read, eat, drink and walk around the few places I could get to on foot, which were not many in case you were wondering. Every day I would wake up, look through the window and stare in awe at that magnificent mountain that stood firmly just a few meters away, reminding me I was nothing but a tiny particle in the universe. Very humbling.


Then I would step outside and sit there for hours, just gazing at the landscape, lost in my own thoughts. The air was fresh, the sound of the breeze was soothing and the whiteness of it all was beautiful. It was the calm before the storm, and by storm I mean twenty lunatics dancing and drinking like there was no tomorrow. I kid you not, I think I have never mixed so many drinks in one night as I did when I was in that place. A regular evening would start with red wine, followed by hot wine with cinnamon and some other spices, then bombardinos (a yellow-looking hot shot covered in whipped cream), and then pretty much whatever we could find. Rum, vodka, beer, tequila, you name it. We were out of control.

Fast forward a few days and back in Denmark, looking for a new place to live. Before coming here I thought house-hunting in London was tough but I tell you, Copenhagen is a fucking nightmare. There’s just too many people looking for places and very few people renting them out. The good thing, though, is that Copenhagen is way smaller than London, so it doesn’t take ages to go from one potential home to the other, and it’s also a lot cheaper. In fact, for what I used to rent a medium-sized room in London I could easily rent a whole apartment here. That, of course, is under the overly-optimistic assumption that you actually find an apartment at all.

Anyway, after an entire month of calls, e-mails, text messages, viewings and a lot of Google Translate, I finally found a room in a small apartment that I will be sharing with a guy called Robert. Nice dude, it seems. Not only the rent is quite affordable but the place is just a short walk away from work, maybe 2 minutes away on a bike. That means I could wake up at 8:45am, have a shower, grab a bowl of cereal and still make it on time to the office. As if it wasn’t enough, I’ll be very close to Tivoli Gardens, the main train station (quite handy when you have to go to the airport early in the morning), will have a Tapas bar in the basement and one of Copenhagen’s most famous beer bars next door. There are also plenty of stripclubs, sex shops, hookers and drug dealers in the surroundings, and a social house where junkies can go shoot heroin without being disturbed by the regular passerby, but that of course is totally irrelevant.

The same week I found my soon-to-be new home, I also met up with my friend Javier, whom I hadn’t seen in 5 or 6 years, maybe more. Javier and I met up back home long time ago and although we weren’t exactly close, we always managed to keep in touch. He lives in Spain and works for Diplomatico, the greatest rum on the face of the Earth. He was in town promoting a series of events for the brand he represents, one of which really stood out: the “Copenhagen Spirits and Cocktails” After Party at The Union. For those of you who have never been there, picture a place with no sign outside; just a black, locked door on a quiet street. You knock on the door and a man on a black suit lets you in. You walk through a narrow corridor, down some stairs and voilá: you’re surrounded by dozens of crazy drunk blonde girls, some random dudes, cheerful bartenders making cocktails, and 3 latin-looking curvy women, half naked, dancing on top of the bar. A little piece of Paradise in the heart of Copenhagen.


It was my first time at The Union and I remember thinking, over and over again for about 15 minutes: “why the hell did I wait SO LONG to come to this place?” If I could have kicked myself in the nuts, I totally would have. Once I overcame the initial shock, I went to say hi to Javier at the bar and seconds after, Leszek, a really nice guy Javier had introduced me to days before, and who happens to be one of The Union’s bartenders, greeted me with a glass of some tasteful punch. We soon were joined by Geoffrey, a cool dude that also works there, who looked after me and made sure to introduce me to some lovely people that night.

From that point onwards, everything is a bit blurry but I do remember dancing reggaeton with a girl that at some point took her shirt off and started waving it in the air. I remember falling down some stairs on my way from the bathroom, too. A decent bruise on my back and another on my right butt cheek reminded me about it the morning after. It was all good fun but looking back, maybe staying at the bar until 5am knowing I had to go to work the next day wasn’t very reasonable. But then again, mental analysis has never been my forte.

Two days later I was sitting at Charlie Scotts, a lovely little jazz venue, watching a Danish band called Jazz Five. My friend Monika had invited me and I’m so glad she did, it was very fun to see these guys play while the audience danced around them; old ladies, little kids and everyone in between, they were all bursting with joy. It was contagious.

Skip a few days I spent at home giving my liver a rest, and so we arrive to the first Tuesday of April, one which started way earlier than usual, with me waking up at 4am for no reason at all. Just what you need when you’re going back to work after a long Easter holiday. Luckly for me, there is plenty to look forward to this week: I have decided to start looking for a bike, I’m signing up at the gym, took up the challenge to read at least one book a month and… and… and…

(wish I could make this blink and change colours and have fireworks coming out of it).

Look God, I’m very happy time is going by so slow, I’m really having fun, but please make Saturday come soon. I can’t wait to see these guys.


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Right, I’m back. I have so much to write about that I don’t even know where to begin, last week has been absolutely hectic and as much as I would love to leave here a detailed record of the events, right now it seems like I don’t have enough energy to pull it off; I have a right leg I can’t move properly, and I’m using crutches, and I’m back home earlier than expected all because I fell off a bike.

To say that my reunion with the pedal-driven recreational vehicle has been far from romantic would be an understatement. This has been the most stupid thing that has ever happened to me in a long time and it totally sucks, particularly because it arrived in the middle of my 2-week holidays in Spain, just when I was hoping to dive into the Balearic Sea one more time before going back to London. Oh well, it could have been worse, I guess. There seems to be no broken bones and although I’ve been extracted 60cc of liquid and blood out of my knee, it doesn’t hurt that much.

Besides, I had a wonderful time on my birthday. For a second year in a row, July 20th has been an amazing day, each of them in their own different way. This time around, I spent it in Madrid, a city packed with some of my best friends; a lovely bunch of people with a very hardcore sense of humour that I find incredibly endearing. Before arriving to Madrid, I spent a few days in Barcelona laying on a beach, working on my tan, surrounded by gorgeous topless women from all over the world who I never got the chance to meet because I was just a bit overwhelmed by so much nudity. It was beautiful and painful at the same time.

Then, on July 19th, I took a bus from Barcelona to Madrid and that very same day, met up with my friend Javier and went for some well deserved beers. Got home drunk at 4am, fell asleep and woke up with no hangover whatsoever. It was fantastic. Next day went with my friend Curro to The Buen Retiro Park, a beautiful place I always try to visit when I’m in town, and later on met up with the rest of the gang for some very cheap rum and cokes at a place we call “Shemalia”. Why? Because its premises are surrounded by shemales who often get into the bar to go for a pee. As my friend Quico once said, it’s the equivalent of having Ronald McDonald entering one of his resturants to use the toilet, just a little less glamorous.

Now, the good thing about “Shemalia” is that is big, usually quite empty, the waitress is friendly and fun, it’s in the city centre and, wait for it, they have 2 rum and cokes for 5 euros. FIVE FUCKIN EUROS. Umbelievable. Just to put things in perspective, a  badly served rum and coke in London could be around 5 pounds, that’s like 7 euros or so. Now think about a place that gives you 2 very big and strong rum and cokes for half the price, it was paradise. Besides, there were Curro, Rafa, Manolo, Dani, Javi, Ara, Quico, Nikki, Tamy, Eileen and Quique to share them with so I couldn’t ask for more, could I?

Of course I could. As if it wasn’t enough, I also got presents! For the first time in a long time, I found myself unwrapping birthday gifts and it felt good. Curro, Quico, Ara, Dani, Manolo and Rafa put together an amazing set of books, a wicked AC/DC mug and one of the greatest Black Sabbath albums in Deluxe edition, just for my pure enjoyment. They took me by surprise and the whole moment almost brought tears to my eyes, particularly because just a couple of years ago, most of these people were complete strangers to me and now they are like family. It’s why I keep coming back to Madrid over and over again and it’s why I wanted to spend my birthday there this year… I miss them and it’s always good to see them.

And then I went to Valencia. I took a bus from Madrid and after 4 hours, I was greeted by my good friend Felix who took me to his place for lunch. Shortly after, we decided to go see the city and he asked me: “shall we go by bike or do you want to take the bus?” The answer came out naturally and without hesitation: by bike, of course! I mean, there were 38 degrees, the sun was shining, there was a beautiful beach awaiting and, unlike cities like London, there was actually a designated bike lane to ride without any danger. What I forgot to consider was the fact that I hadn’t ridden a bike in 17 years. Minor detail.

I put my bag with my laptop and a few books on the front basket of the bike, get on and just as I managed to put my feet on the pedals, the weight on the basket made the handlebars do a funny move that made the bike go sideways quite abruptly and just when I went to put my right foot on the ground to support myself, my ankle twisted and I lost balance. Now, this wouldn’t have been a problem if it wasn’t for the fact that public bikes in Valencia are 3 times heavier than a regular bike; they make them super heavy so they can resist all that reckless use they get so when I was in the air falling, I had no chance to get off or push away the bike as easily as I would with a regular bike so all my body weight and the bike ended up landing on my right knee. It was fuckin’ painful. And embarrasing.

When my friend realized I had fallen like 5 seconds after getting on the bike he came to the rescue and helped me get back on my feet. My knee hurt but it was ok so I got on the bike again (this time with no extra weight on the front basket) and rid for 10 minutes  to the University my friend is studying at, to work on the code for my installation. I could feel how my knee was getting swollen and by the end of the afternoon, I couldn’t walk at all. Took a cab back home, layed in bed with my leg on a cushion and waited for it to get slightly better overnight. But it didn’t, of course. Next day, my friend’s brother (who is a traumatologist – luckly!) put a needle into my knee and drained 60cc of blood and liquid out of it, put bandages all over to immobilize it, got me crutches and basically adviced to go back to London as soon as possible to get X-rays and a resonance, so I cut my holidays short and booked an earlier flight, for which I had to pay 100 fuckin’ pounds, by the way. Not cool.

Got home on Thursday afternoon after a journey from hell (aka Gatwick to London) and went to A&E the day after, to get an X-ray. They said there are no broken bones or severe ligaments injuries, which is good news, but still need to wait for an appointment with a traumatologist next friday to see exactly what’s wrong with my knee as it still hurts a bit. In the meantime, I’m finding my way with the crutches, figuring out how to go up and down the stairs safely, how to get into the bathtub without bending my knee, how to put my underwear and socks on in less than an hour… things like that. Fortunately, my housemates couldn’t be nicer (it helps to live with 4 girls and a doctor) and they have been taking good care of me; one of them even made a stunning tiramisú just to welcome me back home. She made sure to let me know it was mine.

And that’s about it, my cut-short birthday trip to Spain in a blog post. Man, I’m exhausted.

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School’s Out

Damn you, Siberia. Of all the days to hit Europe with your stupid cold wave, you choose particularly those in which I had planned to go “somewhere warm” during my Uni break. What an icy bitch you are. At least Madrid was sunny, cold and ridiculously windy but sunny and full of friends I hadn’t seen for a while, all pretty keen to get me drunk on cheap beer and rum, so to be honest I can’t really complain.

As I only had 4 days to meet more than a dozen friends, my time in Madrid was pretty hectic. My friend Curro picked me up at the airport at 11:30am, went to his place, slept for a few hours, had a very well cooked lunch and headed to the city centre to meet my friend Javier for a couple of beers. At 8:30pm I said goodbye to him and checked in at Mr. Rafa Gil’s gorgeous flat, probably the coolest place I’ve ever stayed in my life. Dropped my bags, had a quick beer with Rafa and some of his friends, and then we all went to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the Antikaraoke. Now, for all of you who have no idea what the Antikaraoke is, I only have one thing to tell you: unless you’re giving CPR to an accident victim, get a cheap flight to Spain and find out for yourself, it’s absolutely crazy!

This was my third Antikaraoke and I really wanted to get up there and be part of it for the first time but to be honest, I wasn’t at my best. Just one day before flying to Madrid, I woke up with a weird cold and my voice was so fucked up I could have only been able to sing Tom Waits songs and there were none of them on the set list, so I just gave up my musical dreams and got a rum  and coke to ease the pain. Soon I was joined by my friend Nikki and Jan, a long-time friend from Venezuela who’s been living in Madrid for ages now. As Jan and I were picking songs to sing (he eventually convinced me to give it a try), Rafa took the stage to deliver a powerful version of “Enter Sandman” and not long after, Nikki went up to sing “Respect”, which is probably one of her best numbers. I can’t find any videos from that particular night BUT fortunately enough, there’s one in which both of them sing “Killing in the Name”, easily the most praised track of the Antikaraoke, that serves perfectly to illustrate the atmosphere of the whole thing. Hold tight, fellas.

Four rum and cokes after, Jan and I were still on hold waiting for the DJ to call us onstage but he never did, there was a long cue of people wanting to sing too, I guess. Oh well, I always sing out of tune anyway, never get the tempo right and that night was a tad drunk so in the end it would have been absolutely awful. Madrid deserved better. I went home with Rafa at around 2am and hit the sack shortly after.

Next day I woke up, got a shower, brushed my teeth and went to Dunkin’ Donuts, the place in which I have breakfast every day I get to spend in Madrid. I tell you, that’s all I care about in the morning when I’m there; all I want to know is if there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts nearby and, luckly for me, there was one only 5 minutes away from Rafa’s. Fuckin’ beautiful. Had a Boston Chocolate with a small cappuccino and then wandered for a while around the city centre until I met with my mate Alan for beers and tapas. Later on that night we went to this bizarre book launch with some of his friends and I must say, I didn’t understand a thing of what was going on in that place. The book is called “Desnudando a Google” (Undressing Google) but for some reason, it has the face of Darth Vader on the cover (which I don’t understand why, maybe I’ll need to read the book to get it) and during the book launch they had these guys dressed as Storm Troopers dancing some terrible electronic music, half naked Princess Leia kind of flirting with a guy dressed like Darth Vader and they were also giving away Darth Vader plastic masks to the audience along with the book (I’ve put mine to good use, as you can see). The whole event made no sense to me at all but hey, the drinks were free, and if there’s free drinks then everything starts to fit. At 2:30am, I decided it was time to leave the dark side so I bid my friends goodnight and went home feeling somewhat drunk.

Next day I had an interview at Leo Burnett Madrid (went down well, I think) then early in the evening I met with my friend Fran, who gave me a kick arse portable turntable as a present and took me to Naturbier, the only place where you can find natural brewed beer in Madrid (according to them anyway). After a huge pint, I was off to meet Nikki, who had invited me to see some really nice short films and later on I met with Curro and Manolo for a beer in a place they have kindly named “Shemalia” as a tribute to all the trans women with male genitalia that pop in the bar every now and then to have a wee. They work around the corner so I guess that’s the only place they have to do their thing. I thought it was all very bizarre until Rafa pointed out that having one of those dudes walking into the place as you’re having a beer feels like being at KFC and having Colonel Sanders himself walk past you while you munch away a full bucket of fried chicken. I found that very funny. Anyway, I was there with Curro and Manolo not for the shemales but for the drinks. Cheap drinks, to be precise. Cheap as in 2 rum and cokes for 5 euros. Yes, you heard that right, two well-served rum and cokes for the price of a single pint of beer in London. No wonder why millions of people fall in love with Madrid every year.

I think I drank 4 of them but it could have been 5, I’m not entirely sure. All I remember is being there having a laugh with Curro and Manolo and all of a sudden being handed this sex shop leaflet by this girl who got in the bar with whom I thought was her boyfriend. They were all pretty drunk (just like us) and had just been shopping for sex toys and shit at this shop in which apparently there was also a free strip show, that’s what the girl wanted us to know. In that moment I realized that my love for tits must be pretty evident because the first thing she actually told me when she approached us was that there were girls with nice boobs in that place and that I should check it out sometime. It seems like women do have a sixth sense after all. The girl and his companion sat on the table next to us but soon we invited them over to ours, there was no one else in the bar anyway so we thought it would be better to drink all together. They soon introduced themselves: she was Irene and he was Gonzalo, they were from Las Rozas and contrary to what we thought, they were not girlfriend and boyfriend, they were just neighbours who liked to shag whenever they had the chance. For some reason, Irene was particularly interested to make that clear.

We had more rum coming our way and when the bar had enough of us, we moved somewhere else. During the process, Irene told me she had always wanted to go to London but there were a couple of things she was worried about: first, she didn’t speak any english and second, she was not sure if she would be able to find a job in her field. I told her she could learn english in a few months and that I was sure she would find a job right away, particularly now that the Olympics were coming to town and the city was full of opportunities. She looked at me with a shy smile and told me she didn’t have a regular job, not like everyone else’s. For a second I thought: “fuck, either she’s a stripper or a hooker”. It made sense in a way. I mean, she was tall, pretty, outgoing, she liked leather leashes and ball gags (that’s what she and Gonzalo bought in the sex shop) and was shagging her neighbour. If I had been sober I would have stayed quiet but I was drunk so I didn’t care to ask what did she do for a living. She looked at me and said: “well, I work in thanatopraxy. You know, I prepare the bodies of the deceased so they look natural, etc”. What? You-got-to-be-fuckin-kidding-me. I didn’t know what to say. Actually, I remember being silent for a few seconds, not knowing exactly how to encourage her any further. What was I suppose to tell her? Yeah, go to London, the Olympics are coming and I’m pretty sure some of those athletes will die and as they’re dead, they won’t talk to you, so the language won’t be a problem either, you know? Fuckin’ell, what a weird thing to do for a living. In the end, all I managed to say was: “well, I know a friend that works in a café, in case you wouldn’t mind doing something else in the meantime”. She laughed and so did I. We both knew how fucked up that job she had was, I guess.

Eventually, we all went to this other bar that was around the corner but we didn’t last long there, it was full of odd people dancing latin music like they were in desperate need to copulate so we parted ways and I came back to Rafa’s with Curro, both of us drunk and talking really loud. By the way, before I forget, here’s someone Curro introduced me to during this visit; you probably know him already, I honestly don’t understand why I hadn’t come across him before. His name is Louis CK and he’s fucking hilarious.

What a legend. I remember watching him on Conan a while ago and thinking he was great but I never followed his track. Until now, that is. I have spent the last 3 days watching all of his videos on YouTube and every single time I do so, the guy just cracks me up. God bless him. Anyway, on Saturday I met with my lovely friend Cristina who invited me to Alcalá de Henares, a small town outside Madrid in which you can have a beer and huge tapas for – hold your breath – 2 euros or so. That’s right, you order a 2-euro beer and they give you a full tapas menu for you to choose from and enjoy for free. That day I had a cheesburger with fries, a calamari sandwich, garlic shrimps, potatoes with alioli and something else, along with 5 beers, and then headed back to Madrid to meet Rafa, Curro, Quico, Ara, Ana and Dani for more drinks at the “Shemalia”, where I had 2 rum and cokes and more food to the point in which I started to feel a bit sick. The night ended at 4am, when I bid goodbye to all of them and went back to Curro’s for a couple of hours sleep before heading to the airport to catch my flight to London.

I knew there had been some heavy snowing the day before so I was expecting to get to the Easyjet counter to be informed that my flight had been cancelled but surprisingly, it was on. Actually, it departed on time and by 2pm I was in cold Luton taking a bus back to Baker Street, from where I would later take the Tube to Manor House to finally get on the bus that drops me 4 blocks away from my place.

Now, I love the snow, I think it’s a beautiful thing to look at but I have to say that it’s a complete pain in the arse to walk through, particularly if you’re dragging a small suitcase with little wheels that were not made to deal with such landscape. It took me like 25 minutes to walk 200 meters, trying not to fall and pulling the goddamn thing through ice and water until I was finally home, feeling hungry and as tired as I was when I left, which totally contradicted the whole purpose of going away for a holiday in the first place. I guess all those cheap drinks and late nights with friends have their price… good thing is I’ve always been more than willing to pay.

Sometimes you’re quite alright

I really don’t understand how my brain works. Seriously, since I moved to London, I have discovered a series of mental flaws and developed some odd practices that really make me wonder what the hell is going on up there. Like that day I forgot (overnight) my debit card’s pin number; that very same string of secret digits I had been using for 9 months almost on a daily basis, gone in a second with no explanation other than complete fucktardness. Or the day I smashed my head with a wall playing hide and seek (I was running away from my pursuer, watching my back as I moved, and completely forgot to look forward. When I did, it was too late). Or the day I sneezed in front of the bathroom sink while brushing my teeth and forgot to step back to avoid collision (I was a little kid and was pretty much at the same height as the bloody thing. Nothing much has changed though, I must admit). However, what really has started to worry me is this strange habit I’ve got since I moved to our new house: the random fridge audit.

That’s right, I now go all the way to the kitchen, turn on the light, open the fridge, stare at it for a few seconds, close it, turn off the light and go back to my room, empty-handed. I even do it while chatting with my housemates in the kitchen… I just stand up in the middle of our conversation, open the fridge, pretend to be looking for something to eat but a moment after, I would shut the door without taking anything out of it and go back to whatever I was doing before turning into a weirdo. At first they didn’t notice but now they all know, and wait for it to happen just to make fun of me. They chat and pretend to be distracted but as soon as I go near our fridge, you can feel the expectation filling the room; their eyes all over me as I open the fridge the same way a sleepwalker goes for a little hike in the middle of the night, and once I close the door and turn around, they’re all staring at me seconds away to burst into laughter. Bastards.

They ask me why I do it and to be honest, I have no real explanation. It’s like I feel this impending need to check everything it’s ok in there; an inevitable compulsion to make sure our food sits there comfortably, waiting for us to eat it. I know it makes no fuckin’ sense whatsoever but I tell you, it’s getting more and more recurrent and it’s freaking me out a bit. I’ve thought about it lately and I’m starting to think maybe the problem it’s not me but our house. Yes, our house. After all, this strange routine started once I moved there and considering the things that have been happening there recently, that could be an absolutely reasonable motive.

I think our new house has unwittingly become some sort of source of wackiness but I have to be honest, somehow, I really would like it to stay that way. I want to keep randomly checking out the fridge, turning around and finding that lovely bunch laughing at me. I want the neighbours to keep knocking on our walls because they don’t like us to sing “Inmigrant Song” at 2am. I want the little kid next door to keep jumping in our garden to get back to his house (as long as he doesn’t burgle ours). I want our cardboard Royal couple to stay behind our kitchen couch so we can keep writing things all over their noble happy faces. I want to keep hearing guitar chords late at night, finding cakes and cookies with hand-written invitations to eat them on our table, hulking cats wandering in our backyard and all the passive-aggressiveness that has been going on for the last 3 months.

I want to come back to that house next year for another round of that London insanity I love so much, but in the meantime, I will enjoy the coziness of my real home. The one I have got back to for a visit after a year and a half away. The one my beloved family and dogs take up residence in. The one in which delicious food flawlessly take over breakfast, lunch and dinner, no matter the time of the year. The one with the nice garden I’ve been laying down on for the last couple of days for a bit of that dearly missed caribbean sun.

I haven’t forgotten you, London. Actually, I can’t wait to be back in your arms but right now, I must confess: Venezuela, sometimes you’re quite alright.