Last evening here in Barcelona. It’s 5:36 p.m. and I’m struggling to rouse myself so that I might do a bit of work. Later, we’re heading to El Born Barrio with our friendly Catalan landlord to enjoy a final meal out, and, most likely, a few glasses of cava. We told him we had to be home by 11 p.m. on account of our early flight and I could just about hear him laughing at us over text message.
“That’s a prudent hour,” he texted us in his formal Spanish. But doth I detect a hint of good-natured sneering?