It took 26 hours to get to Barcelona. The Chicago storms led to a two-hour flight delay, which meant missing my connecting flight, which meant sleeping on a bench and walking in circles at the Dublin airport for 10 hours. Fortunately, I made a friend on the plane who compared airline chicken consumption to chewing on a condom. We stayed up all night and she babysat me while I slept on the bench, to the disdain of the occasional businessman.
While drinking coffee in the terminal, a woman with yellow teeth, an eyepatch, and hands like tree roots from rheumatoid arthritis approached us and sat down. She asked where we were going. I told her I was going to Spain and she said,
“I almost moved there in 1979, but my partner drowned beforehand. That’s why you don’t mix swimming and bourbon.”