Today I am preparing to do something impossible. I’ll write a chronicle of a nap, being the one who throws her out. I have written about events of which I barely had memory, that I had lived in altered states, even dreamed events, but never about something that I have experienced asleep.
One has his rituals: I prepare the toothbrush and the headphones (I can’t find the mask). I’m not going on a trip, but to eat. Today I will go to a kind of restaurant where customers can decapitate a nap in some dens at the bottom left.
I am a fan of short naps. Not so much of those that Cela proposed (pajamas and potty) like the ones he exercised Dali: After eating, I closed my eyes in an armchair holding a coffee spoon with his hand, so that when he fell asleep, the click of the silver on the floor would wake him up. Enough.
The place where they offer this service is called The Lobster Roll (Muntaner, 22). It is a more unlikely pairing, but also as inspired, as that of the Rapid where they mend shoes and copy keys. Eat a brioche sandwich pregnant with shrimp or lobster and then nap a while. I taste the classic one, with Conneticut and house sauce (butter and lemon), accompanied by chips.
The invention of the nap is named Napuccinocontraction of Nap (nap) and cappuccino (I guess, wow), name of a microchain of small corners to sleep in public. In this case, it is a wooden bunk bed that you can cover with blinds to turn it into a cubicle with its dim lighthis plug and its cushions suitably disinfected.
Little dreams at Ikea and Glòries
I could offer you here a list of Barcelona places where I have hugged (or dreamed of doing so) Morpheus with enthusiasm: public libraries with heating in February, the Clariana de Glòries sun loungers in June or sofa section (better yet, in room drills) Ikea. I have fallen asleep, why deny it, in the Marina station bench at five in the morning waiting for the first subway. But this public nap will be mature, civilized.
I choose, as in the colonies, the top bunk and I read the first page of a Chekhov story: “Andrei Vasilich Kovrin, Magister, was exhausted and his nerves were on edge.” And then I put on the headphones. In essence, the piped music of the premises and the conversations, increasingly muted. A uterine sensation, similar to that of rub on a train. In my headphones, as always, a occult and theology podcast (one has his narcoleptic affiliations) of a man from Murcia. I choose the chapter titled ‘Does the Bible confirm that giant human beings existed?’
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This is where the chronicle should end, because I’m already sleeping. And yet the typing continues. I’m like those pedantic writers who say: “At a certain point, the novel writes itself.” Because I’m in my dream, where it appears Mariscal’s lobster docking Cobi with a butterfly knife in it Moll de la Fusta (I swear), but I also hear the conversations of the diners. A slam of the bathroom door wakes me up after a restful quarter of an hour. I put an 8.5, to this nap.
I have not been ashamed to sleep here and, nevertheless, it gives me a certain apprehension go out now with disheveled hair and raccoon pint. I don’t take out my headphones and walk to the side of the table where a diner with her mouth open looks at me: “Where did this come from?”, say his eyes. From a better place. Bon profit and bona nit.