I walked passed the outer wall of Park Güell, high up on the other side two young boys leaned over the stone fence. They shouted something at me in Spanish. I saw what they were meaning. On the sidewalk a few meters in front of my feet the red lid of a sandwich box was lying. Next to it a blue paper airplane.
I picked up the lid and tried to throw it up like a frisbee. The second try was succesful. The boys cheered and pointed down once more.
I picked up the airplane, gave it a try but this was much harder. Every time I tried and failed the boys shouted “uno mas!”, one more time! I sharpened the airplane’s nose, tried from far away, from close by, almost flew it into their hands one time, but it was too difficult and I told them “uno mas!” meaning “the last time!”. I failed, gave it one final final last try and flew it over the wall. The boys thanked me in English. I walked away but when I turned around I saw the boy with the airplane in a launching position, about to throw it down again. His mother showed up and shouted something at them. They all walked away.
A few minutes later I suddenly heard them behind me. The two boys were too busy playing and fighting to recognise me. They jumped passed me, the red lid and the blue airplane in their hands, doing some sort of karate exercise. I looked at them, they ran off and I caught the airplane boy in the act of flying himself, both feet lifted from the ground, floating in the air.