We picked up a third man, and they told me he was Swedish. I said he looked it. He said he was actually French. We laughed.
We wound through countryside we knew until it merged into that we didn't. We wound through gorges, past viaducs and wind turbines. We stopped for lunch at the Viaduc de Millau. Ham and goat's cheese on dark granary bread in front of immense white triangles slicing the sky, spread out across a long plane, traversing the river cut deep into a gorge. Cars skimming across like pond skaters.
Six hours after our departure and we were approaching Barcelona, passing graffiti'd apartment blocks and flat-roofed houses favela-sprawled over leafy hillsides. They drove us into a car park ('parkhaus', said the German) deep in the city's belly and, backs packed like blonde-haired camels, we paid, said thanks and took the tram to find our hosts for the weekend. We caught glimpses of Gaudi gilded spires in brief flashes. Under construction. Gone until later.
The trains were big and hot and we were glad to be out of them. The air was cooler than we'd expected; it was what we'd needed. And our hosts were there to meet us. Two boys, short haired, one Scottish and one Irish. Professional poker players with a big spacious apartment, paid for by hard-earned poker money. The nicest guys you could meet. Scottish told us about how he'd won a tournament last night, and how he likes salt and black pepper on his porridge. He made us a cup of tea. Irish gave us juice and spaghetti bolognaise. They gave us keys and told us to make ourselves at home.
And then we headed out, overjoyed, into the city to meet Juliet.
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