Today was the final of the World Cup: Spain versus Argentina. Football normally doesn’t interest me much, but still I found myself on the couch, watching the screen with a beer in hand.
And honestly: it was a pretty fascinating match. Spain won 1–0, but it could easily have been 15–0. They spent almost the entire game on Argentina’s side of the field — passing, edging closer to the goal, every attack a small chance. You could see the frustration building in the Argentinians; the game became more physical, until a red card send one of the Argentinos home. Only in extra time did the ball finally fall right, and then it was over quickly. There was some pushing and complaining and Trump popped up on screen for a moment, and that was the whole story.

I watched alone at home. I have to work again tomorrow, so after the final whistle I headed to bed. For Ana and the kids it was a completely different story: the celebration exploded there. After the victory they walked to the beach with a big group of children, celebrating, laughing, jumping into the water for a moment. A spontaneous summer evening celebration you only get when everyone is swept up in the same wave of euphoria.
Last year I turned 

