It's 4 p.m. on a Thursday in Valencia, and a suffocating typhoon of pressure is mercilessly beating down upon my battered body, swallowing it whole and not spitting it out until my soul has been completely sucked out and chucked into the Mediterranean. I leave for Paris in T-minus one hour, but I must first write this column, lest I suffer the unspeakable punishment administered by the bloodthirsty Life section editors after a late submission (a frown). More than that, though, I have to pee like a racehorse, and my Spanish mother, Charo, is taking a much-needed smoke break in the bathroom.
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