Or how I wearily woke up in two different foreign countries on the same day.





(Disclaimer: This one post is more like a personal introduction. There's not going to be much beer talk... so you can skip it if you don't feel like reading it. No reproaches).





Last Thursday I woke up utterly exhausted. It had been a tough week so far, and I only managed to sleep 3 hours that night thanks to just another ridiculously long workday. The launch of this English version of my regular blog might have helped too: a premiere is something special, and there's always adjustments to be made.





I went to the shower and realised that for whatever reason I was humming Suburbia, by the Pet Shop Boys. Sure, I could have felt like picking a club and destroying a couple of things, if it wasn't for my numb body (although if you ask me, I think it meant something more profound*). Lucky enough, my mind was crystal clear, which came in handy for that long day ahead.





After packing my bag, I tied a tie around my neck and put some perfume on. I looked respectful... what a fraud. The short walk to the office was pleasant, as always: fresh andorran air, a background of steep mountains that recalls you that you are actually living in a valley, and also a blue sky that wouldn't last much. The day brought lots of work, loads of rain and a fine unhealthy discussion with my boss (lively as a German Hefeweizen). At the end, I drove home, picked my things and went to Barcelona Airport with my beloved Mrs. Birraire.





It was hard to say goodbye to her after spending all the week away from home; I felt some remorse. The expensive and below the average combination platter of chips, meat and dubious cheese, along with a Voll Damm, didn't cheer me much: all I was longing for was boarding the plane, sit in a decently quite seat and get some rest.









(...)



It was almost Friday, and I woke up utterly exhausted. It had been a tough day so far, but I managed to sleep the whole flight on the plane to Dublin. You could say that it was some progress compared to that distant morning on paragraph 1, and it was. But I still felt drained. I hadn't checked in the luggage, so I walked straight to the taxi stop and asked for a journey to Avalon House, about 10 minutes south of the Liffey River.





Unexpectedly, I talked about the weather with the taxi driver. We had a decent conversation though, and when we fell silent a familiar tune caught my attention. Van Morrison began singing Brown Eyed Girl on the radio; an easy and catchy melody that reminds me of the day I got married. I could see my wife all dressed in white, smiling broadly; then I got goose bumps. I suddenly became kind of aware that I was in Dublin. That's where I had dreamt to be for years, when I was a regular on a couple of those pseudo-Irish pubs from my hometown, already on my teens. It is also where my sadly deceased cousin lived his last year of life. I felt that this trip would be an emotional experience, with lots of similarities to that first time working for the Barcelona Beer Festival.





The rain had stopped when we arrived to Aungier Street. I paid the fare and said thanks: the day was eventually over. I checked in at the hostel, let myself slip into bed and began dreaming of my first European Beer Bloggers Conference.









Salut i birra!







