J. Alfred Prufrock seems to be on a grand tour of Europe’s airports. I don’t know about you, but I find myself sadly lacking in spirit, for I am laughing at all his misfortunes.
Smells of coffee and fresh bakes register somewhere in my lower brain, and my stomach lets out a low contemplative growl. Tell me, my good man, where is this lounge of which we hear so much?
A flood of totally incomprehensible Catalan follows, accompanied by seven finger waves, a shrug, a full arm point and two (consecutive) raised eyebrows. I stem the outpourings with a hurried ‘Gracias’ and back off warily. Have to find the damn thing myself.
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