The Windows That Sweat More Than We Do
It starts the same way every winter here starts. You don’t notice the cold first. You notice the water. A thin line along the bottom
It starts the same way every winter here starts. You don’t notice the cold first. You notice the water. A thin line along the bottom
The last day always feels lighter than the first. Bags are already half packed. Conversations are shorter, more practical. People exchange details they genuinely mean
09:47. I pressed the button, watched the red “1” glow on the floor map, and heard the hum of a diesel engine far too close
Rob texted at 07:10. “AC already on. Bring your gadget.” I packed the cheap datalogger, a surface thermometer, masking tape, and a notebook. Diagonal Mar
I noticed it first by the sound. A soft hiss turning into a proper splash as I cut through Plaça d’Espanya, and the crowd did
Pepi’s text landed at 06:41: “Kitchen says 29°C already.” The city hadn’t earned that number yet. By 08:15 the stairwell felt like a parked bus.
Couldn’t sleep, so I went walking. Past midnight, streets quieter but never silent — mopeds whining, bins being dragged, someone arguing on a balcony. Ended
The lift died again yesterday. Halfway up, halfway down, nobody’s sure. The doors jammed, lights flickered, and poor Carmen from the third floor was stuck
We had another neighbour meeting. Always a mistake. Someone pins a note in the lift — half the building turns up, the other half pretends
Diagonal Mar again. I don’t know why I keep walking there. Maybe because the towers glare at you like smug teenagers. All glass, all angles,