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Barcelona. Leaving three days of fever delirium behind, but packing my 38°C degree fever to take along, soaked into a never ending dizziness I find myself in a Taxi to Barcelona Airport, 30 minutes before the departure of my plane to Paris.
Barcelona, noisy as always yet so familiar and hospitable, is about to experience one of its most devastating storms in years. As if intuitive to what is about to happen, our plane escapes as fast as it can, shaken by winter clouds, jumping up and down through the cold cotton like world. It all seems a dream to me, moving like a movie I am watching, but not directing.
Paris - Charles de Gaulle is like landing in Terry Gylliam's “Brazil”. Lost in an 1980’s like science fiction movie scenery, no working bus service, no information, no signage nor direction, just mafia cab services and friendly French soldiers.
Antoine appears out of nothing, ready to create something exceptional, … and there it is again, the excitement of not knowing what is going to happen, entering a different delirium, a different cold cotton world.
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