Grapefruit moon

Last night I left the lab at 9 pm. It was the fourth day in a row, after having been here last Saturday and Sunday as well. At some point, even the usually indifferent -about such stuff- Micha, turned to me and asked me: "Is something wrong?"

To me it looked like nothing was wrong, except perhaps from a growing headache in a shrinking head, my back that ached, my elbows that felt stiff and my shattered humour. I was coming to the end of two of the most useless weeks of my adult-so-called-productive career, which even for someone like me, whose moto is "we have to do what we have to do" could not simply look like nothing was wrong. In any case and whatever it was, I was getting over with it. Having just sent some uninteresting -according to my not so humble opinion- analysis to some experimentalist I was leaving the lab on the eve of the holiday with the soothing -yes it can be that too- voice of Tom Waits hitting me smoothly on my way out of the elevator.

" Never had no destination, could not get across.
You became my inspiration, oh but what a cost."

And as I was getting out of the patio towards the beach in search for a bike, I saw exactly what Tom was singing about. A big, beautiful "Grapefruit moon" gloriously standing above the Barceloneta. As I rode the bike steering with my right hand, trying to use the left to call Demetra, I could not take my eyes off it. And neither could a great number of people who taking advantage of the holiday were strolling down the beach on this rather cool night at the doorstep of spring. When Demetra managed -by a stroke of coincidence or fate(?)- to reach me first, I had already joined all these modern city, moon-howlers, taking dangerous manoeuvres with my bike, while talking on the phone and whistling alongside Tom Waits at the same time. I guess it had only taken my stiff elbows, my aching back and my weary head, five minutes to return to normality. And it would be rather cheesy to state the obvious that sometimes the simplest things can have such an uplifting effect, so I won't say it. Perhaps because the moon -especially a full one- cannot be qualified as something simple and because it would not do any harm -even to really rigorous scientists like us- admitting the influence the stars have on us, every now and then.

Much later the same night, going down the Rambla at 3am, I found myself walking with the company of a prostitute trying to lure me into temptation on the dawn of Good Friday. As we both walked down, side by side for a couple of seconds, she noticed I was still staring at the moon, still hanging over the top of Columbus' column down the street . Then as if -I 'd like to think- the moon exercised a romantic effect on her she turned to me and instead of the typical "Let's go fuck" line, she told me: "Let me make love to you".

I stopped and looked at her for a very brief moment, until I realized that she was being professional trying to guess what I wanted to hear.

Then I thanked her very politely for that excellent choice of words and went straight home.