First-Class

Today’s the day we decided that what the fuck, Mimi can go to public high for grades 9 through 12, anyway, because why not go to an old school fancy restaurant like the ones my parents used to take my sister and me to—Simpson’s in London or the Tour D’Argent in Paris—this one, the 7 Portes in Barcelona with white tablecloths and waiters in tuxes and the same meal we could have gotten for half of what we spent, but we did manage to stretch it out for two and a half hours, including coffee and a couple of digestives for dessert.

And then, we may as well sit outside and have a couple more drinks in the café square since, after all, we’ll never be here in Barcelona again, or at least not like this, so who cares how much we’re spending since it’s only money and given the way the economy has been tanking of late, we may was well get rid of what we have while we still have it.

So sure, too, how about a caricature—although I didn’t sit it for it, I’m thrilled to see Mimi and Jen immortalized by another of the town’s characteristic money-making schemes and in the long run, I’m sure I’ll treasure today’s creation way more than some pair of pants or something I might have acquired instead.

Finally, we’re traveling to Paris, first class, on this overnight “hotel train” from Barcelona; we could have covered the same distance for a fraction of the cost on one of the no-frill airlines, but so what? I have to keep in mind my mom’s (failed) project to eventually pass away with just one dollar left in her pocket.

Today’s the day we’ve made mighty inroads into that endeavor and I’m trying not to regret it a bit, since, after all, in some way we’re greasing the skids of the global economy and the wheels of the hotel train, too.