Hedonism and Entrepreneurship in Barcelona

It is 9:30 a.m., and I have already snoozed the alarm five times. My brain feels glued to the back of my skull, and my eyes are puffed up. Last night was too much. I smoked too much weed and perhaps drank too many beers. I don’t remember. I share the flat with some friends, but the culprit the the neverending roster of misfits who show up to party every night. Yesterday we ended up singing The Lumineers, Beirut, and probably Bob Dylan. It’s the 2010s, and folk is on the menu again.

I take a quick shower, get dressed, and fly down the stairs toward the street. I live next to Plaça Catalunya, in the heart of Barcelona. The street is already full of tourists, skaters, and prostitutes robbing the leftovers from British party-goers. Drug dealers whisper: “Hashish? Marihuana? Cocaine?” as I pass by. But I’m hungry, and I go to Bar Centric for breakfast. I eat out every day because I’m the CTO of The Startup, one of the first tech companies in the city, and I feel rich. I have a yearly salary of €40k which I use to justify anything. “Preparing breakfast? I’ve done the math, and it’s not worth my time.” So pretentious.

I arrive at the office at 10:30 a.m. Not too late. I usually justify it with “better overlap with The Americans,” which is somehow true. The investors decided the kindergarten needed adult supervision. They installed an American CEO and kindly asked The Founder not to bother too much. But today is a very important day, and The Americans are here: the CEO, the CFO, and the CPO. The big guns.

Today we meet with Rahul, a high-up executive from a company looking to acquire The Startup. We are in the last stages of negotiation. If the deal goes through, everyone will be rich and I might not need to work again. Or so I think, since I never understood that double-dipping clause the investors have. Why would someone want to acquire us? Well, we strategically stitched a half-assed chat into our product and “convinced” Gartner to call us “Cool Vendor in the Unified Communications” space. With Slack's meteoric growth, big companies are trying to ride the hype wave through acquisitions. And here we are, hoping that Rahul ends up holding the hot potato before our bank account runs out of money.

We invite Rahul to one of the best tapas restaurants in Barcelona, and what follows is one of the biggest fumbles in business history. He checks the menu, and his frown deepens. By the end, the whole Mariana Trench forms between his bushy eyebrows. The frownest person I’ve ever seen in my life. In a desperate move, he orders patatas bravas. Spanish code for potato wedges with sauce. But when the dish arrives, he looks beyond disappointed: he is vegan, and the potatoes are covered in mayo. We realize there is nothing in this restaurant he can eat, and we watch in silence as he feeds himself on the few breadcrumbs left in the basket. We exchange pleasantries and end up talking about soccer. Soccer? No one in tech likes soccer. That’s just the small-talk euphemism for “fuck off”.

The deal does not go through, and no one becomes rich.

The Americans leave for the airport, jet-lagged and wondering why they work on this company. Meanwhile in the office, all attention is on Ferran. I hid or changed some people's names in this article to respect their privacy, but Ferran is Ferran. He will always be. If you don’t know him, you might think he is angry, but if you ask him, he barks, “I’m not upset, it’s my voice!” He is running The Migration, a critical procedure that could blow up the whole database with customer data. It is Friday, and he is about to leave on holiday. Beyond irresponsible, but he is solid and claims everything is under control. His wife waits for him downstairs with the car packed and ready to go, but he has time to play one last ping-pong game. There is always time for ping-pong.

Friday afternoons often end up in an impromptu party on the terrace. We now have craft beer on tap, which attracts all sorts of nocturnal creatures. The Founder is hitting on some girls, and his wife, who is also at the party, says she does not mind. We suspect she does. The night unfolds slowly, then suddenly. People are wasted, nerf guns are firing in all directions, and some random guys are doing coke in the storage room. No one really knows who they are, but when they yell “Let's go to Apollo!” people follow them. But I have other plans: I have a date with Polish Girl. I have a date with the future mother of my kids.

I met Polish Girl at the carnival party we hosted at our place a couple of weeks ago. My flatmates and I were dressed as Breaking Bad characters. Yours truly? Heisenberg. The easiest costume for bald dudes. My flatmate is a chemist and he cooked crystal meth. He found the recipe they used in the show, mostly blue-dyed sugar. But the ones who brought real drugs were The Italians, who were also flirting with Polish Girl. I interrupted the scene like a bird of paradise, executing some of my finest funky dance moves. She was impressed, and I closed the deal with my stories of homelessness in San Francisco. Soon after, we were kissing on the balcony, and a silent, colorful clown witnessed the romantic scene in shock. Her sister, who also happened to be the Human Resources manager at The Startup.

This time around, however, Polish Girl invites me to her place. She wants to see me again despite being Catalan, an unpopular flavor on the expat dating scene. “Yeah, he is Catalan, but he is very international,” she tells her friends. They demand an explanation.

She lives up in the hills of Vallcarca, and since my cardio is poor, I arrive panting. Polish Girl receives me with a bottle of Soplica and a big smile. For those not versed in Polish drinking culture, Soplica is a fruit-flavored vodka, the perfect social lubricant for awkward types like me. We drink, laugh, and kiss passionately. “Nothing can spoil this,” I think. “Bzzzzz, Bzzzz!” My phone starts buzzing. “Who is it? Who calls you that late?” I check the phone, but I already know who it is. “Well darling, there is something I need to explain to you.” She looks puzzled. I open the laptop and ceremoniously announce: “I’m on call. The Startup needs me,” and start typing furiously on the terminal. In her eyes, I’m Neo from The Matrix. “Do you know what’s going on?” Of course I do. I always do. I visualize Ferran at the edge of a swimming pool sipping a martini with a smirk on his face. The Migration!

The database is down, and all American customers are complaining. I answer tickets. I keep the database running. I feel like a vodka-powered hacker. The migration is stuck at 69%, an ironic sign of what will not happen tonight. Polish Girl keeps bringing me Soplica and asking if everything is all right, hoping I will finish soon so we can resume our rendezvous. “This is what dating a CTO is like,” I tell her seriously, “A trial by fire our nascent relationship must endure.” She goes to sleep, and I fix the issue at 5 a.m. The migration is done, and customers are happy again.

“What a day!” I think with a smile. “I almost became rich, and I almost got laid. My life is nearly perfect.” I cover her with a blanket and lie down next to her. The world vanishes immediately.