10:15pm and wondering where the heck my husband might be...

I know, is not like is 3 in the morning, and even that isn't surprising knowing Raul... but today is different... maybe he got kidnapped on his way home by a man wearing a skirt or a guy on a shirt with blue and red stripes (?)

Barcelona is blue, no, not sad-blue, but blue colored.
There are more than 15 thousand Scottish hooligans without a ticket to enter to tonight's soccer game. In moments like this I like to think how wonderful having a flat near Camp Nou is (I was being sarcastic b.t.w.), you just need to open the window to realize there's a game going on.
Not a nice place to be if you don't like soccer. Raul never cared about soccer, I guess that's one of the reasons I married him... and yet, everybody can feel tempted to experience the mass-influence once -or more- in their lives, right? I mean, I did go to a Sabina-Serrat concert last month. Then again, men puking, shouting, chanting weird soccer anthems, and blowing on trumpets is not the kind of music I like to hear.
Fifteen thousand people flying from their country to come to a city where their soccer team is playing the locals, and they won't be able to see it.... oh yeah, there's TV... Don't they have TV's in Scottland?
Guardia civil, guardia urbana and mozos de escuadra are on call tonight. I can even hear the helicopters.
Plaza Catalunya was worse than the city dump since this morning. Les Corts, my neighborhood, will be it by 6am tomorrow.

10:45pm and the game is over (yep, Barça won)
Funny, Raul hasn't arrived home.