The twentyfifth of January was a sunday. Ai. On mondaymorning I should be back in Cádiz at eight for a practicum. I calculated: that's half past nine Spanish time, nine o’clock Andalusian time, and half past nine Cádiz-time. I wouldn’t make it if I’d leave in the morning. So I told Pájaro that I'd go by bike and drive back home after our “concert” in the eco-pizzeria in Tarifa.
On my way to Tarifa I got an indeterminate feeling that appeared to be anxiety. That’s exceptional: all my genes involved in recognition of danger and worry seem to be recessive. And when it eventually happens that even I can’t deny an alarming situation, I usually think that it’s too late to worry anymore anyway and that things “naturally” will end up to be ok again then, which they normally do. That prevents a lot of stress (at least for me, not necessarily for people around me :P), but my guardian angels must use their superpowers regularly to compensate my lack of fight-or-flight reaction.
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