Barcelona

I have to go to Barcelona. Tuesday. I’m looking for a quick five days. Get there. Work. Get back. It’s a simple plan, but one that got me through Las Vegas relatively unscathed.

I only hear great things about Barcelona, which in a way makes things worse. I’m not sure I want to enjoy it. I like my job, or at least what I do, but being away from home is annoying these days. I’m feeling responsible for the first time in my life. And going away seems unnatural.

So I arrive Tuesday afternoon, head over to PokerStars base camp to interview a German player I have no interest in and then a popular Spanish player who I’m told doesn’t speak much English. ‘Fuck it’, I said, ‘we’ll give it a go’.

It could be a good tournament. The EPT normally is, and PokerStars know what they’re doing now, dammit. I’ll try and see Barcelona. Like Paris, they start late in the day, leaving time for other stuff, which I’ll try to fill up to avoid it seeming slow. Counter that with 4am finishes and things should speed up again.

But this isn’t a rant about work. I can’t complain too much. If I was suddenly plunged into office hours I’d probably freak out. Just that trips away always coincide with wanting to stay home. It’s difficult to get used to.