“Where are you from, what’s your name, where are you going?”

The bus taking us to the airport is empty – it’s just him and I. That guy, who insists on talking while all I want is to SLEEP FOREVER.

Can’t say hi, can’t chat, can’t focus. Can’t rack my brain for yet another conversation. This new life this new country this new everything. The trips the stories the events the meetings the calls the emails. It’s been intense. I’m very tired.

“Wait, I’m going to sit next to you so we can chat.”

He insists. He talks, talks. Tells me his name, speaks of his family. Asks me where I come from, where I’ve lived, what I’ve done. Keeps on talking.

When the bus driver takes a break near the Allianz Arena in Munich, he wants to go see it “up close” and asks me to take a picture of him in front of the building.

“I’m a big football fan,” he says. He smiles a lot.

He – a 60+ man with a long career, two sons to take care of, a retirement plan to think of.

A senior, someone who’s lived twice longer than me on Earth, yet looks at that stadium like a kid seeing snow for the first time.

A man 30 years older than me, yet 30 times more enthusiastic, more animated. 30 times more alive.

Shortly after the bus dropped us at the airport. We said goodbye, he smiled some more, and that’s when I realised I was done with being tired. I hate this grumpiness anyway, and it’s not actually fun to act like you’re overwhelmed. From now on I want to look at all things the way Angel, 60 years old, looked at that football stadium on a Thursday afternoon.