we woke up early to get out of london.  i blipped on the internet for 38 seconds to download email and then headed down for a swift breakfast. at checkout this all cost me 20 pounds. it made no sense.

no time to argue. we headed out and tried to get a cab. no time to get stuck in traffic either. walking to the tube was way quicker. out at the next stop and just caught the train to gatwick with less then 2 minutes to spare. by the time we hit the airport we realized the next train would have missed our plane for us.

easyjet. the guitar flies again. while they are making thøger check the size of his carry on bag, i stand there with my big hat on and body length guitar bag strapped on behind. they often don’t see it. i just stand there and slowly back away with my tickets at check in, guitar unseen.

2 hours later we land in barcelona. at the same time the family has arrived at the same time in the same terminal from denmark. a relative miracle. the driver fetches us, but can’t all fit, so me and my daughter hoof it by train. at first on the wrong one. then eventually corrected, arrive in tarragona some hours later.

the evening will be leisurely, but it takes some readjusting to adapt back in to father figure. the kids’ on-stop energy yank takes some reacquainting.

we head over to the teatro for an interview, surprised to find cristine rosenvenge playing there this night. so head back stage for a quick hello. she’s dressed like a 60s era beatnick, all in black. for some reason most of our female friends all have a problem with cristine. but there is something about her that connects us. i don’t know what exactly, but something about single parenting and how she attacks her trade. we are not similar, but there is some point of overlap. could be her impossible lineage of danish parents raising her up in spain. those 2 elements connect by joint compound, but that’s just a part of it. it also has to do with a phantom nature of existence. when i see her it seems like we are dead already or hovering through some territory that is foreign to us dead people, but have managed to morph into some form that allows us to pass through at any rate. we stop for a moment and acknowledge each other passing the other way in that ghost life. either way, an overactive imagination is useful in this line of work.

i would like to stay to finally hear her set of tunes, but have to head out to feed the kids. the clock is not set by our own agenda now.

we take dinner outside and the children apply there own trade. the boy ‘juggles’ his football (soccer ball) and the girl draws on the ground with her papers. dinner is simple and fine. there is an informal approach to it here in a country where dining out is a culture and restaurants stay open till midnight as a standard.

the evening draws to a close. the grape is ribera del duero. the life is good.

the day ends.