We could hop a train for Barcelona, watch the mighty Messi play and then have a Pernod in a hotel cafe, show the bartender how to make a proper rusted gin and tonic and tell everyone we were in Afghanistan during the ’03 invasion. Regale them with false stories of villagers rescued and Taliban captured. Make friends with a small wealthy man whose business we never quite make out. He takes us on a whirlwind tour of the local bars until we end up at a suspiciously swank flat in a suspiciously dark neighborhood. Late into the night someone suggests a yachting trip, and we find ourselves drunkenly dodging tugboats on the Genoa line. Throwing gin bottles against lumbering rusted hulls, crying out that we are pirates and would like permission to board and capture their ship.

“Send down your libationary provisions and the fairer maidens, and we shall let most of your men live!” we cry at a silent command deck. The small wealthy man tries to urinate on a passing hull and is cast over by its shrugging wake.

“Man overboard!” we roar, tossing life preservers off every side of the ship but the one he fell from. The man paddles in circles, observing happily that he cannot swim and will likely drown. You leap toward him limb-splayed, landing man-side and dragging him helpfully underwater. I prepare drinks for your return, taste each to ensure proper proportions, and then finish them to settle my nerves.