Last night, Andrew and a friend who is also his business partner had an evening conference call with a potential website builder who lives in Greece, and we planned to have dinner together here at the apartment afterwards. We set the table on our terrace, adding a new element: a bed sheet draped over the metal rods that arch over the terrace in a kind of nonexistent canopy. After finding—for the second time—that a large piece of heavy iron from an upper balcony’s railing had plunged down to our terrace, we’ve grown alarmed at the prospect of someone getting clocked in the head with falling debris. Hence the bed sheet. In a way, it looks almost Mediterranean-beach-cabana.
For dinner, Andrew made a pasta with chicken and sun-dried tomatoes. “Where’s you find the sun-dried tomatoes?” the friend asked, having searched fruitlessly for them himself in Barcelona. We always get them at the mega-grocery store at El Corte Ingles, though it’s always an adventure: they usually only have one or two jars, and the jars’ location always changes. Spain, Spain.
Before dinner, Andrew and I had decided to invite a few people over for a drink later on; Andrew texted some of his friends, assuming no one would show up since it was so last-minute. I’d gone to the grocery store and idly bought a bag of chips, two bottles of wine, and two six-packs (total: 11 euros—I love Spain). At ten, the door started buzzing and buzzing, and soon there were fifteen people on our terrace. Our impromptu get-together turned out to be a lively little affair, which ultimately moved inside after we were angrily shushed at midnight by the upstairs neighbors.
A few people snacked on leftovers from dinner. “Where’d you find the sun-dried tomatoes?” another friend asked. Seems we’d unearthed a kind of hidden treasure.