rafael pyton

Ah, what a nasty city Barcelona is! And I say this despite having had a royal time in the Boulevard Culture Club - where me and my Swedish colleague obviously ended up shaking our asses on a stage… somehow, they put too much alcohol in the drinks in Spain. Never thought I’d complain about such a thing, but perhaps I’m getting old.

Yeah, right.

In any case, we also went to mega Camp Nou to catch Racing Santander trying to find the goal against the übermighty FC Barcelona. Pssch. They didn’t stand a chance - but I least we got to see some goals. Must admit it is pretty cool when 80.000 fans yell out their passion for the game. Myself, I was a little bored, a little cold, a little shifting weight and shuffling feet. No matter how much I try to like football, it just doesn’t reach me in the same religious sense than the other 79.999 people at the venue.

But I was busy complaining about the city; well, here goes. Without Gaudi, they got nuttin. It is dark, dreary, and dirty. Forget about walking home at night without at least seven whores simultaneously reaching for your balls, trying to squeeze out whatever cash you have left in your pockets. Bloody disgusting, eventually also rather scary.

I didn’t even like the food. The chorizo was too hard, the patatas bravas too wet, and the tapas absolutely bland. The potato omelette was sad, and rest was just greasy. Ugh.

See you later, Catalunya. Of course, the French had to ruin the experience even further. Guess what; they were on strike. Strike. Now there is something the French do well. God, I long for Ronald Reagan.
Restricted airspace over France meant that it was going to be pretty darn hard to reach Finland from Spain. Fucking believe we spent the whole fucking evening at the airport. Managed to get to Copenhagen somehow, around two in the night. Slept two hours at a bad hotel, hopped on the morning plane to Helsinki. Yugh. I’m all dead - if not for the pain in my swollen useless excuses for feet keeping me awake.
And I have a 25 hour flight to look forward to in the early morning/night… which I’m absolutely sure will be delayed because we’re going to the armpit of the world, London Heathrow.

Flying is torture. But the beaches at Kauai beckons. Back 18th March. Aloha!

I just noticed we have slipped into February, which meant my absolute minimum requirement of one post per month - itself the lowest of low targets - got slandered, slain and slaughtered. But what is a man to do, when there is so much of “do”, and so little of “dodo?” I strongly suspect insomnia to be paradise.

Let me open the gullwings of my Delorean, and go for a ride to mid-December. Ah, I seem to recall a brilliant visit from Germany’s finest journalist, Dr Gonzo. What a sensational sin we endured in Helsinki for a couple of nights, a heady mix of rum and kebab and unduly, unruly behaviour.

Then it started snowing. It still has not stopped. This is the very finest, coldest and whitest winter since 1987 - just when you thought that your childhood winters were a thing of your past and you had accommodated your body to the common and prevailing belief that everything is melting and who will save the polar bears and Karis will be a seaside resort. Not that I would resort to analysis on basis of one winter, but the Climategate certainly proved that there are so many lies floating around that it is impossible to uncover the uncorrupted truth.

As usual very few knows what to believe in, and those who do, fool themselves.

And then it was Christmas, aka the best day of the year. This time, family old and young, emigrated out to the ever-beautiful archipelago, to mother’s. It was, in a word, magnificent! Even the snow angels outside begged to be let in.

Instead of celebrating the birth of Jesus, we worshipped at the altar of crass materialism. Particularly Scarlett, who found a little red guitar in one of the packages, and immediately ripped off a few chords worthy of Keef Richards.

For New Year’s we packed ourselves into the Fiat 500, and drove off to Tallinn. Since this is a family blog (really?!), I can only say the the party was particularly exuberant in every imaginable way, and lasted for several days. The Estonian jet-set are the kings and queens of Good Time. Mostly queens. Why, even better.

And with that, a new decade busted forth like the cork from Dom. Speaking of the old monk, when Scarlett turns 16, there is a vintage ‘98 pink Dom Pérignon waiting for her. It was a gift from one of our friends in Tallinn. Attached, the message: “Scarlett, the first champagne you taste should be the best.” Don’t you just love that?

Now what? Well, work’s great. I’ve just single-handedly snapped up one of Sealed Air’s biggest customers in Finland, which made Scandinavian director very happy indeed. He’s going to have to pay for this one, of course - I’m taking Madli to Haikko Kartano as a reward. A weekend of luxury spa, cold therapy, roasted dove, fine wine, should ensure that the batteries remain charged and charging.

I also just put the last touches to Scarlett’s new little room, pics later. It is quite the colorful little nest, will either drive her to nightmares or produce a great artists… hihi.

Finally, a sneak preview: February ought to end well. First, a little sales trip to Barcelona, might even catch a game at Camp Nou. The very next day I get back, we go off on a lovely vacation - Kauai, Hawaii, 2½ weeks. A friend of ours has a house there, so Madli and me and another Estonian girl will lap sun and beach and ocean.

And I will sing, “underneath the mango tree, my honey and me…”