Si ... Barcelona the beautiful. Two of my good friends - travellers - both fondly remember Los Caracoles' outdoor rotisserie. It seems to be a signpost for tourists within the Barri Gòtic - even those trying to blend into the wallpaper that is an any city on the map.
As much as some avoid the telltale flash of a produced camera from personal pouch, comfort does still tend to draw us towards the familiar of home - especially after a long day spent stabbing at perceived adventure.
It is so very easy to get, or remain, lost in an old city. So why is it that, without trying, even well-intentioned foreigners tend to meet up at the same place?
As much as some avoid the telltale flash of a produced camera from personal pouch, comfort does still tend to draw us towards the familiar of home - especially after a long day spent stabbing at perceived adventure.
It is so very easy to get, or remain, lost in an old city. So why is it that, without trying, even well-intentioned foreigners tend to meet up at the same place?
Chapter 24: Barcelona. Separate Hostels.
I have a half memory of dry humping her in the middle of the night; could have happened, perhaps was an imagined, but it’s not as if I’d be lying if I said that I have no recollection of her slapping or shoving me in that tiny brass bed we shared one starry night in the Barcelona that gives rise to endless attempts at poetry:
To explain how it was that a former couple could sleep naked in the same bed;
To do justice to the gathering of clothes that was that late morning with the noise of La Rambla seeping past the opened shutters;
To the manner with which we said so long to our old caretaker casually brush brushing the cracker crumbs off his wifebeater shirt and onto the international floor;
To draw a picture of the door to the street being opened and her walking to the left of stage, myself guessing to the right and an address stolen from the dog-eared Lonely Planet stuffed in my knapsack. A good-bye for now.
And not that it matters, but it was a Thursday that revealed the buskers that had followed us north from Valencia and taken up residence on the wide median of daytime La Rambla: my painted friend, still head-to-toe in talc, animating a movement on the elevated toilet, book in hand, tip hat still waiting at his feet. It was near noon and I was within the process of accepting the prime of a sun that was not producing me a dark and stormy night in the cosmopolitan of downtown Barcelona, Catalunya. Sorry, but still moving just a block, maybe two, past the turn to go into the backpacker haven of Plaça Reial; I did indeed take an eventual left through a throng of tourists and stagger down an alley that be a street of stone and the former stop along the way for young Picasso discovering brothels and the funny beauty that be an acceptable sexual detachment acquired through the quiet exchange of money - an extremely true story that is within the passing of an outdoor multi-rotisserie built into the brick wall of a restaurant that roasts chicken and matches its glossy picture displayed in the printed guides to Spain, Barcelona. Laundry was slung from the second-storey balconies of apartments clinging to life beside and above the modern discotheque garage-doored and secured with a heavy metal lock until the hours that be deemed late enough to open.
And I walked, and I resume in this first of person: The stoned path turned once upon an opening presumed for a small plaza and a large, religious idol carved in certain smoothed-out rock, spray-painted with a mix of English-Spanish graffiti - a cheeky moustache smile added by the teenage swear; a created man, he be, wearing a robe amongst his alcove and the dirty walls and ubiquity of urine on the nose of myself moving on the general grounds of the Barri Gòtic.
But yes, in need of a room - and so a flag, its hostel with a buzzer connected to yet another person possessing the inability to flow in English. “Una cama?” was the simple of say for a bed in the brevity of that Spanish of mine. The heavy wooden door did power click open in that afternoon, and the thought process moved along and up the marble stairs of a hostel on Carrer d’Avinyó, in from the old of the Gòtic’s inlaid streets, beneath the hanging brass and glass lamps, to the general exchange with an elderly gentleman that had the two of us searching for a language. “English?” A little, he motioned with his thumb and index. “Un poquito,” I replied to his Spanish. I told him that I was from Canada, and he brought up the French, to which I replied a mostly maybe.
“From Canada … not speak French?” he shook very slowly. Fantastic. More guilt. The rest a blur of three languages having me hand over some euros to sleep in a double room by myself, the only one left. Good enough.
I lifted the mattress on bed number 1 and received absolutely nada; the second revealed vestiges of safe sex and a pack of Americana with three ciggies left - me thanking God in many languages, puffing along to my further rummage of the room. A large dresser offered me up Tylenol and a book partially about Jesus, a reason to pry open my tall, split window and stare across to a brick wall, a series of similarly old glass peering back not ten feet away - sorry, some 3 metres and a bit. For approximately a minute-and-a-half I thumbed through the Good Book, smoked some more of my booty and gradually realized that I was on holiday in a very beautiful city. I became dizzy from them ciggies high in nicotine, sat down on bed number 2 and had me a good old think in the throes of a buzz laced entirely with my growing friend Tobacco. I was fine, soon talking to my lonesome in the heart of Barcelona, asking a series of questions with no answers, producing a string of heart-wrenching facial expressions with no one around to either see or enjoy their spectacular glory: and You are just gonna have to trust me on the fact that one of them was indeed an unforced smile lifting me off a questionable wool blanket and walking me smartly out the door.
To the handing off of my passport, a wave for my Spanish septuagenarian, Miguel, nursing the pages of a roman à clef in that iffy month of March that was to be my eventual withdrawal from the sweet leaf that hath indeed written various lovely song, novel, manifesto in the secret basement.
To the return to street level and the olfactory mix of piss and fresh bread somewhere near. Wonderful, and the sense of smell possessing that most powerful memory of all.
I did what anyone does in a city core - walked, alone in my Levi’s on a day hot enough for shorts and sandals, perhaps even a Hawaiian shirt. My Nikes following the baking of bread through the narrow side streets of an uneven stone and specific terms of architecture for bent, overhead walkways. Locals performing the normal amongst the popping of my feet out from a skanky alley within sight of the marina, sailboats bobbing on that blue of sea allowing myself a quiet letter spelled vacation:
Dear X, with the Mediterranean once again so near, in plain view of the two of us doing something separate in a foreign land hopped into together.
And so I did stroll, along the grand Passeig de Colom, the mix of water and salt to my left, a long stretch of pavement to my even more immediate. Cars, tour buses driving on the right side of the road.
Dear X, while staring at the terribly male transvestites in front of the Sex Palace peep show not that far of a toss from Chris Columbus’ monument at harbour end of La Rambla.
Myself seated on some fresh grass - that long dead man high atop his notched column guarded by brass lions and all manner of statue, shat upon by the common seagull, maybe pigeon from above. I stared the across me, a classic building of centred pediment and tall pillars with probable Greek classification, its palm trees laughing at the absurd notion of me adorned in long pants and flannel within that very warm month of that March, Spain. Dear X, with nature working its special way into the narrows between my freshly shaven scrotum and the sides of my hairy thighs, there’s no better excuse to swear to God for having just seen thee Robert Redford himself sipping possible café cortado on a nearby patio - a close double of the man at the very least. The face of a road map.
And still, I was not telling lies during the proceedings, even in the silence of a pause taken at the end of a long strip cut through the centre of old town Barcelona: the buskers and the tourists, the locals shopping for flowers, a pet bird. A walk on a Thursday afternoon amongst the speaking of that mostly Spanish of languages hidden from the brown sock Brits and Danes clad in sandals and soccer shorts in the mid 20’s of the Celsius guide to things.
“A beer,” I said in the manner of a local. “The bathroom - upstairs or downstairs?” Simple stuff. The necessary, myself somewhere within the confines of La Rambla watching the drop of coinage into the upended hats of those peculiar persons following me about the land with music and revue: an actor and his arrested walk into the make-believe wind - his tie frozen flung back over left shoulder, the grimace on his face, the play of it all; two humans in ape suits, epaulets on army coats of black, and I figured them drunks - the open box at their feet a large mix of coin and paper money.
Dear X, I’m off to a nap back at my rented Spanish villa of lovely courtyard - the padlocking of its wrought iron fence preventing me fully exploring from below; just an allowable peek through the bars at its patio setting saved for future, safe from crashers or crime.
I retrieved my passport with a bonjour and hola for Miguel and hit the communal hallway washroom, locked the door but had a half thought to leave open, invite potential in. An Australian accent walked me back to my room, talked into a phone around the corner, at times crying - her voice wanting to go home, she pausing me in my tracks. I left my door unlocked, split open my vertical window and had a look out across to the other walls of brick and draped windows, craned my head up and into a pure clean Spanish sky framed in the collective of final floors. I had been awake for no more than four hours, had two measly beers under my belt and needed a nap. Slept naked, no covers; most likely had a dream of some sorts but cannot remember for the life of myself. My door almost ajar, ‘Please Disturb’ hanging on its knob. This my way and the opening of an eye, late afternoon, bed number 2 and the justification for being on holiday, spending money and the words that will leave my mouth when stepping off the return plane and running into friend or relative, the person at the local pharmacy inquiring as to the where the tanned face was obtained: in Spain with an ex-girlfriend - and the ability to kill a conversation, the willingness to omit or embellish where needed.
To my slow creak of long brass latch splitting open vertical glass on other side of the hallway, to a quick sniff down into that stone courtyard of closed for the while. To the stairs, to the street, to a left or right, a subtle adjustment to my money belt tucked inside of a waist walking me through the alleys of shops and restaurants, the ingrained churches and children playing together on their steps; I held onto the rope and faded into the background, pretended I was them and local and not with the sartorially-challenged storming around with their pallid knees exposed in the later of a March.
“Guapa, guapa,” he gave her.
The girls are pleasing, and that randy old man tapping his unlit ciggie on the back of his hand had reminded of a whistle learned in Torrent: attractive, and the beauty of a female slangily implied, virtue an ‘a’ on that end of his say. Because she had been strutting, by herself and the neck of vanilla to my nose. Him slow turning thought away from the accentuation of her cleft and calf to light his Spanish cigarrillo and allow me to perhaps move through a store door and happen upon holograms of colourful people trapped inside of glass boxes, celebrities and clowns visible when one stopped looking behind two-dimensional frame and merely peered into and around the corner of flat picture.
A trinket purchased for a series of euros.
A spot of tea funked up with parts ginseng and essence of pineapple, its given name I have forgotten but does not really matter beyond the scrap of paper and time with myself and hippies remaining to this day the world over. Poetry on the walls of their three-steps-down bistro of few and imaginary pen in my hand. Dear X, have you at all been this side of La Rambla, or have we divided neighbourhoods without a word or lawyer.
I paid and omitted a tip, thanked the girl with my necessary lisp of the gracias, received a crooked stare from that curly-hair intellectual with perfect taste in song and tea - maybe because I was from away. Wonderful enough, and I returned to the asymmetry of the Gòtic, its penumbras sometimes too small for the average map. The air cool if one within the narrows of little or no commerce, shadowed by its beautifully run-down apartments with street level buzzers remaining nearest this language not nearly understood.
The smell of bread - the implication of olive oil, until emerging not for fresh breath but because I was an inevitable child of crowded cities, more or less drawn at some point to witness and comment and revel and crawl away with a satisfied sneer. Eventually, everyone and their knapsack walks past Los Caracoles with the outdoor rotisserie built into the side of its wall and marvels and sniffs and leans and falls the last few steps of street and alley towards Plaça Reial; under an arch, and into the full of sunlight within the plaza, the travellers and exchange of money I had been blaming for dragging me out of the shade. I tied my flannel around my waist and sat down at the fountain’s edge; smoked a ciggie and slowly said no thanks to the global whispers from sides of mouths offering up things wrapped in foil, familiar sights and gifts from the hidden garden.
I watched the various of palm growing next to electric lampposts, up from stone, pierced concrete; fountain water trickled and people stopped and wished, threw the honoured faces of the world up and into the sound of me submitting a silent apologia for my earlier curse towards this spot. Turned my head up I did, towards the warmth that was the underarms, the backs of the knees, the between toes sweating within my sock and Nike shoe. Yes, the parts of the planet that were specifically me composing a list of things to do: sate a nostalgia for a bocadillo; to open my mouth and not stutter but speak fluid and quick.
To a stroll amongst the random notions of tourists, locals knowing where they were headed. The buskers working their magic for the cornered sips in the outdoor cafés. To my full crossing of the plaza, beneath another arch, into a crowded side street with a glimpse of La Rambla.
A round Guinness sign seen hung above a door; the pause and the guilt that was my liver and my brain calling their respective consciences.
This was Barcelona. There was Molly’s Fair City with the oak doors flung wide open towards a Centretown flashback: but this wasn’t Spain. Dear Fonzie, I step across this way and enter a pub with the hopes that they slow pour the stout, that you are within and we can talk casual.
English or Irish, the etymology of one busty Molly Malone on the marquee was the same difference to my eyes sitting at the wood, trying to order a Guinness in Spanish from a guy I had just heard speak perfect English, albeit with a British accent. I gave him a thank you with the lisp and he sent me a funny look for my troubles, his stance akimbo as his vacationing countrymen bellied up to the bar and spoke their blue-collar to the other bartender, a black-haired Spaniard replying with a ¿que? The two lads repeated themselves, in a slower and louder version of the original, asked my bartender if he could “Oy, stick on some Coldplay?” Because he was near the stereo, happened to be whiter.
And no bar tabs to be run in that Fair tourist City of Molly. Ice cubes were grabbed with tongs, and I do believe that the panelling was not veneer but of a true thick wood.
In the Caribbean, the straw in given rum or vodka concoction comes with half the wrapper still on, proof of sanitization. Sorry. I flipped out my euros as I drank, leaving small tips and my Spanish thanks
A friendly lean, his colour of hair: “There’s no lisp in Barcelona, mate.”
I was in Catalunya, and it was regular old gra-ci-as, thank you very much. Sweet enough, I gave the speaker of at least two languages and pourer of good Guinness, feeling his pain of serving Jack-and-Cokes to people just off the plane, out of taxi, into hotel and shiny shorts and onto pub, already back home, their lilting songs on the Spanish stereo. I scribbled away at a figment of my separation: This place is a beacon for the English language. It is not Spain.
There I sat, with them. The Spanish and the steady drizzle of Yanks and Brits, Irish. Danes. The cigarettes and stout filling my stomach with food and the social aspect that responds to the question “Where are you from?” asked in English. I lived in Ottawa, and he was from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. One of us lit the other’s ciggie, but he was very good looking. The dirty blonde hair, slightly tanned face, red in cheeks; he not so near the Jesus Years of myself. After the initial, we spent the usual next five ten minutes tacitly convincing each other that we were not gay. Talking about every girl, reasons behind the perfect Spanish ass.
My dreamy American went by the for real name Damien, which I say and use out loud because - as my father would have say - when am I ever gonna see this person again. Together we loosened one another’s lips, whet our whistles on a shared appreciation for good beers; he sipped on the Bombardier, an ale, and I continued to draw hearts in the head of my Guinness, trying to explain what it was that I was doing in Barco, paring Las Fallas down to three sentences or less, reaching for one more cigarette before adding that I, too, was merely hanging out, doing stuff. The both of us free. Me a bartender, he pursing a Master’s in environmental studies. Young.
And in true Centretown fashion my ex-girlfriend walked through the doorway. Sounds made-up, a lie to compensate for, but as You know full well this could not be any further from the truth. My eyes moved from the baby blue of Damien’s.
“Saw the Guinness sign …and just knew that you would be in here.” No handshake, only a laugh from her and that long curly hair that still had not been blow-dried straight. But the usual introductions, the offering up of the male seat. We spoke North American, bought her a beer in basic Spanish.
“Did you notice that Corona is called Coronita in Spain? Look, over there in the glass fridge.” Neither of them had shepherded this valuable piece of knowledge. They smiled and spoke a pair of monotone ‘hmms.’
“He lives for things like this. Go ahead, Hen, say something else stupid and utterly useless. Do it.” And I do not exactly remember how it was I had presented her to Damien - whether it was as my friend, my girlfriend, my ex, this is X. But there be over a million locals in Barcelona, thousands more of the tourist variety teeming the streets and museums and parks and churches and places to hide and perchance compose a letter or meet new people and attempt a fresh start. But she was there, wearing her little denim ensemble, saying cigarette with a ‘w’ instead of an ‘r’ - showing her roots.
I told Damien that I was entirely not that bad. Explained to them about the provincial lisp and the nuances of something as prosaic as thank you.
She let that one go with barely a smirk - had a glow of her, a fresh from the sun of a wide promenade.
“But I see that you came here, too, senorita - get tired of trying to speak Spanish? Yes no?” And these not fighting words. No straight smile from her to me; and a nod from Damien just two days off the plane from U.S.A. My question for her and the group because I had earned the right to open my mouth and not speak in the manner of the Spanish for a brief respite.
“How do you say more ?” Mas, I gave him, adding that indeed that was what a beleaguered Roberto Duran had said to referee and Sugar Ray Leonard in putting an end to their infamous last title fight: No mas - no more. Damien returned me, “Hmm,” and turned to order himself another ale in the language of the land.
We exchanged the hostel stories - the varying level of privacy. I inquired of any discovered treasures, but neither had bothered. Always do, I implored. Had they strolled down La Rambla, seen the buskers, been by the chicken rotisserie just the other side of the plaza. How was the Spanish going. Questions asked and answered in English. A smattering of Spaniards in that pub of ours.
An Irish Car Bomb: a shot of Bailey’s and Irish whiskey spelled with an e is dropped into a glass of Guinness. Chugged.
“You came together, but you’re not together?” Exactly, she said him.
“Kind of, mostly,” was my great contribution. “You’d have to hear the whole sordid saga to fully understand that f.u.b.a.r. is the proper pronunciation - is that a Canadian saying?” X shrugged but Damien assured me that it might even be American in stock. Fair enough, I gave them. Settled and moved on from. And she was rubbing her left eyebrow, about to leave me with the fair Damien. She was off to her dorm room full of girls, co-ed bathroom down the hall. To meet friends. Wonderful, I provided her.
And in conduct with the traditions of the land she double-kissed the red cheeks of Damien, officially welcomed him to Spain. Smiled me a promise of absolutely nothing, supposed that I could have been big and set the two of them up - sat in the corner and watched them whilst feeding my mouth with a handful of grapes. But this would be a lie and beyond the good-bye that was merely one part of town in a very large city; I watched her move through open oak doors with the supreme knowledge of a certain tattoo just within concealment. And I cannot really say where Damien’s eyes lay, do not wish to think You any forced thoughts of the man who lived north enough to know what an icing call was, played my position in high school rugby. He tried a Fortuna, and I stole my very first Marlboro.
“You’re giving up dope to concentrate on cigarettes? That’s fucked up, Henry.”
“Hey, they laughed at Jesus didn’t they?”
“No, not exactly they didn’t. But, so, this is on sound religious grounds then?” I sucked my Americana, shook my head and left out the significance of particular time in my life - my convenient excuse.
“What do you think of just before you fall asleep?” I paid for my Irish beer in Spanish, omitted the lisp in thanking my perfectly bilingual British bartender. “Never mind. It’s different most every night, right. But given a good go, it is a rather short straight look at stuff - a small invention maybe thought up while sitting quietly on your toilet.” Damien ‘hmm’d’ me, and I furthered him this: “This little fire stick is my ticket to straight thought. Man, weed was just my wish for fancy vacation.”
The young American sucked harder on a cigarette low in nicotine, drew it deeper into the lungs. Coughed and then giggled at my expense. “I have been smoking since I was sixteen, and I can - honestly - say that I have never considered it in that way, as therapeutic.” We fought over some adjectives and then I asked him point blank what he was afraid of - was he on the run from something. “No. No girl. I’m just travelling and relaxing, maybe I’ll take a boat trip out to Mallorca. I really don’t want to find or lose myself.”
I grinned and blamed my line of questioning on the strength of them Marlboros. More tweaking needed with the mechanics of the theory, was the way that I put the Fortuna into my mouth. “What do you say we leave this English behind, huh? Between the two of us we should be able to string a few Spanish sentences together.” The beautiful Damien agreed, actually said What the fuck. And we walked through the open oak doors. He had heard of a club way up La Rambla and I followed, nothing to lose.
The couples, the embraced lovers we passed. The packs of young men in soccer shorts, crew cuts, loud European football songs. The erotica museum that we paused at on the way, that was closed for the night and resumed us on our crawl.
“Is that how you say Black Sheep?” he wondered, and I supposed that we had found the place. All we wanted was beer and music. Something Spanish.
“Yo soy Canadian,” I announced to the doorman, “him American.” And he took our cover anyway, let us walk through that wine cellar of a club that refused to play us any music.
“Do you see that girl in the skinny mini? She smokes a pack-and-a-half a day. Guaranteed.” The Mediterranean diet, local water, their genetics that had Damien staring and guessing about the Spanish ass.
“That would make her very thoughtful then, wouldn’t it?” The lighting was perfectly dimmed for the music that wasn’t there; one could hear a person talk not ten feet away, hear the mix of the collective. “The chica in the second-skin jeans over there - that butt has to be working on at least two packs a day.”
Damien went for beer and quickly returned with rumours of the English language having been spoken as a native tongue; I smiled into my cigarette and immediately set us off on discovery. “Have you ever been in a bar scrap?” And he couldn’t really decide if I was joking or not; this possibly sturdy Damien pointed the general direction and told me that he was in, actually said What the fuck and let me lead the way of folly and perhaps too much nicotine-thought coursing itself throughout myself.
Next to that bar of certain size and shape, within an archipelago of confab that was the simple mingling of persons - Damien and this: “That’s them. These two guys here were speaking English with an Australian accent.” Was this true, I demanded of them, above the rise of people talking amongst the lack of music in a club not more than a block off La Rambla. And indeed it was, they responded in that always convivial manner - the two strapping lads with sideburns of length presenting forth simultaneous hands of the right variety. “What do you have to say for yourselves? Do you wish to seek counsel at this moment, or perhaps that bouncer over there?” I remember the surf in their eyes, have a story to tell of Damien laughing out loud just as the shots of tequila were sliding down our four throats.
In Quebec, there be a branch of provincial government bureaucracy commonly referred to in English as the language police; its mandate is the preservation and invention of new French word to maintain with the global infestation of Franglais.
To the washrooms, to our waves to the mates, to that long strip called La Rambla. To a return walk into the evening roll of small European cars showing off on a pleasant Thursday, cruising and hoping for a stare in while they pretended not to be looking out. Past the McDonald’s tastefully situated within stone of lime; presumably, a Burger King around somewhere near but never did we find, even after asking for King Hamburger in Spanish, that bit of slow English that introduced us to three university students who had watched enough American TV to indicate to us that there was none around. There was to be no satisfying of Damien’s and my late night craving for a flame-broiled Whopper - drunk food; the one of them - a girl of maybe jet-black hair and eyes to visualize - spoke a few more words, knew of a club and decided to ditch her friends and take us there. I believe that to be what happened; we were led back beneath an archway, returned to the Plaça Reial. She held Damien’s hand and continued to slow speak Spanish to us; we barked short ticker tapes of her native to this wondrous little creature parading us past the centre fountain and down the stairs of a name that does not really matter beyond the heavy pound of house music beneath its florescent and neon lights. I yelled into Damien’s ear and he mine; this girl believed to be called Avellana danced by herself for awhile and we didn’t, but I am not exactly sure if it was quite as exciting as I may be presenting.
There was some ron con limón courtesy my Spanish, and then snips and pieces of we three leaning into each other, but eventually she was off, talking up a group of people - maybe friends she was to meet; nonetheless, eventually going gone from sight. Fair enough, I waved after her, and told Damien that the place wasn’t really my scene.
The beautiful American followed me up and out into the fresh air that was the plaza and its closed-for-the-night cafés. “I thought you had an in with this saucy little Avellana, man.”
“I thought so, too. A goddamn pack-and-a-half-a-day ass to boot.” He had wanted to baffle her with higher learning, perhaps tutor her many studies. He had desired to do what I had wished to do with her, if I wasn’t still kinda sort of betrothed to the fair X of Ottawa, Canada.
3-something-in-the-A.M. We tried once the more with the exchanging of the cigarettes, tweaked the thought theory some more; after a few puffs it was decided to walk back to our respective hostels, Damien having set up in the Gòtic, as well.
Our sneakers carried us to the outdoor chicken rotisserie joint, into the warren of alleys that be that oldest part of town; past the rows of Vespas set to kickstand. To the front of a building flying a hostel flag and the lodging that be what he found for cheaper than mine - small talk and he invited me in, had a speak to the elderly man working the late desk; a peek by him shot over Damien’s shoulder, a sneer directed to me. I supposed that I could have spent the six seven minutes of conversation time needed to convince this old man that I was neither gay nor dangerous; my theories on cigarettes with respect to philosophy and the leanness of a Spanish female’s ass most surely would have wiped the disdain from his scowl. All this I had no doubt of as I waved to Damien and stumbled off into the stale piss streets of Barcelona dark.
A little later than 3-something-in-that-A.M. Mere blocks away from my hostel and choice of two beds; I knew this by the very fact that we had just left them spits and their chickens taken in for the night: this was my neighbourhood. I stepped through and through, absolutely positive with every turn of corner that I would see the street named Avinyó written on the side of a building. But I was lost, with no dropped cookie bits to prevent me from walking in circles - and yet absolutely sure that I still knew my surroundings and with next step would be a left or right away.
I could lie and say that I didn’t sit down on a stone bench in a small square and almost have me a good cry, but I definitely won’t be doing that. In true Centretown fashion the Barri Gòtic should have just let me find my merry way home after an hour, laughs for everyone.
But not so much the second time I walked myself past the sight of lovely chickens no longer in the fire. Two guys taking garbage out, dirty water running the alleys that were my maze, not my Centretown. And I could just hear birds chirping the start of sight as I rang the buzzer, walked up marble stairs and retrieved my passport from another elderly man with a scowl on his face. Wonderful.
I have a half memory of dry humping her in the middle of the night; could have happened, perhaps was an imagined, but it’s not as if I’d be lying if I said that I have no recollection of her slapping or shoving me in that tiny brass bed we shared one starry night in the Barcelona that gives rise to endless attempts at poetry:
To explain how it was that a former couple could sleep naked in the same bed;
To do justice to the gathering of clothes that was that late morning with the noise of La Rambla seeping past the opened shutters;
To the manner with which we said so long to our old caretaker casually brush brushing the cracker crumbs off his wifebeater shirt and onto the international floor;
To draw a picture of the door to the street being opened and her walking to the left of stage, myself guessing to the right and an address stolen from the dog-eared Lonely Planet stuffed in my knapsack. A good-bye for now.
And not that it matters, but it was a Thursday that revealed the buskers that had followed us north from Valencia and taken up residence on the wide median of daytime La Rambla: my painted friend, still head-to-toe in talc, animating a movement on the elevated toilet, book in hand, tip hat still waiting at his feet. It was near noon and I was within the process of accepting the prime of a sun that was not producing me a dark and stormy night in the cosmopolitan of downtown Barcelona, Catalunya. Sorry, but still moving just a block, maybe two, past the turn to go into the backpacker haven of Plaça Reial; I did indeed take an eventual left through a throng of tourists and stagger down an alley that be a street of stone and the former stop along the way for young Picasso discovering brothels and the funny beauty that be an acceptable sexual detachment acquired through the quiet exchange of money - an extremely true story that is within the passing of an outdoor multi-rotisserie built into the brick wall of a restaurant that roasts chicken and matches its glossy picture displayed in the printed guides to Spain, Barcelona. Laundry was slung from the second-storey balconies of apartments clinging to life beside and above the modern discotheque garage-doored and secured with a heavy metal lock until the hours that be deemed late enough to open.
And I walked, and I resume in this first of person: The stoned path turned once upon an opening presumed for a small plaza and a large, religious idol carved in certain smoothed-out rock, spray-painted with a mix of English-Spanish graffiti - a cheeky moustache smile added by the teenage swear; a created man, he be, wearing a robe amongst his alcove and the dirty walls and ubiquity of urine on the nose of myself moving on the general grounds of the Barri Gòtic.
But yes, in need of a room - and so a flag, its hostel with a buzzer connected to yet another person possessing the inability to flow in English. “Una cama?” was the simple of say for a bed in the brevity of that Spanish of mine. The heavy wooden door did power click open in that afternoon, and the thought process moved along and up the marble stairs of a hostel on Carrer d’Avinyó, in from the old of the Gòtic’s inlaid streets, beneath the hanging brass and glass lamps, to the general exchange with an elderly gentleman that had the two of us searching for a language. “English?” A little, he motioned with his thumb and index. “Un poquito,” I replied to his Spanish. I told him that I was from Canada, and he brought up the French, to which I replied a mostly maybe.
“From Canada … not speak French?” he shook very slowly. Fantastic. More guilt. The rest a blur of three languages having me hand over some euros to sleep in a double room by myself, the only one left. Good enough.
I lifted the mattress on bed number 1 and received absolutely nada; the second revealed vestiges of safe sex and a pack of Americana with three ciggies left - me thanking God in many languages, puffing along to my further rummage of the room. A large dresser offered me up Tylenol and a book partially about Jesus, a reason to pry open my tall, split window and stare across to a brick wall, a series of similarly old glass peering back not ten feet away - sorry, some 3 metres and a bit. For approximately a minute-and-a-half I thumbed through the Good Book, smoked some more of my booty and gradually realized that I was on holiday in a very beautiful city. I became dizzy from them ciggies high in nicotine, sat down on bed number 2 and had me a good old think in the throes of a buzz laced entirely with my growing friend Tobacco. I was fine, soon talking to my lonesome in the heart of Barcelona, asking a series of questions with no answers, producing a string of heart-wrenching facial expressions with no one around to either see or enjoy their spectacular glory: and You are just gonna have to trust me on the fact that one of them was indeed an unforced smile lifting me off a questionable wool blanket and walking me smartly out the door.
To the handing off of my passport, a wave for my Spanish septuagenarian, Miguel, nursing the pages of a roman à clef in that iffy month of March that was to be my eventual withdrawal from the sweet leaf that hath indeed written various lovely song, novel, manifesto in the secret basement.
To the return to street level and the olfactory mix of piss and fresh bread somewhere near. Wonderful, and the sense of smell possessing that most powerful memory of all.
I did what anyone does in a city core - walked, alone in my Levi’s on a day hot enough for shorts and sandals, perhaps even a Hawaiian shirt. My Nikes following the baking of bread through the narrow side streets of an uneven stone and specific terms of architecture for bent, overhead walkways. Locals performing the normal amongst the popping of my feet out from a skanky alley within sight of the marina, sailboats bobbing on that blue of sea allowing myself a quiet letter spelled vacation:
Dear X, with the Mediterranean once again so near, in plain view of the two of us doing something separate in a foreign land hopped into together.
And so I did stroll, along the grand Passeig de Colom, the mix of water and salt to my left, a long stretch of pavement to my even more immediate. Cars, tour buses driving on the right side of the road.
Dear X, while staring at the terribly male transvestites in front of the Sex Palace peep show not that far of a toss from Chris Columbus’ monument at harbour end of La Rambla.
Myself seated on some fresh grass - that long dead man high atop his notched column guarded by brass lions and all manner of statue, shat upon by the common seagull, maybe pigeon from above. I stared the across me, a classic building of centred pediment and tall pillars with probable Greek classification, its palm trees laughing at the absurd notion of me adorned in long pants and flannel within that very warm month of that March, Spain. Dear X, with nature working its special way into the narrows between my freshly shaven scrotum and the sides of my hairy thighs, there’s no better excuse to swear to God for having just seen thee Robert Redford himself sipping possible café cortado on a nearby patio - a close double of the man at the very least. The face of a road map.
And still, I was not telling lies during the proceedings, even in the silence of a pause taken at the end of a long strip cut through the centre of old town Barcelona: the buskers and the tourists, the locals shopping for flowers, a pet bird. A walk on a Thursday afternoon amongst the speaking of that mostly Spanish of languages hidden from the brown sock Brits and Danes clad in sandals and soccer shorts in the mid 20’s of the Celsius guide to things.
“A beer,” I said in the manner of a local. “The bathroom - upstairs or downstairs?” Simple stuff. The necessary, myself somewhere within the confines of La Rambla watching the drop of coinage into the upended hats of those peculiar persons following me about the land with music and revue: an actor and his arrested walk into the make-believe wind - his tie frozen flung back over left shoulder, the grimace on his face, the play of it all; two humans in ape suits, epaulets on army coats of black, and I figured them drunks - the open box at their feet a large mix of coin and paper money.
Dear X, I’m off to a nap back at my rented Spanish villa of lovely courtyard - the padlocking of its wrought iron fence preventing me fully exploring from below; just an allowable peek through the bars at its patio setting saved for future, safe from crashers or crime.
I retrieved my passport with a bonjour and hola for Miguel and hit the communal hallway washroom, locked the door but had a half thought to leave open, invite potential in. An Australian accent walked me back to my room, talked into a phone around the corner, at times crying - her voice wanting to go home, she pausing me in my tracks. I left my door unlocked, split open my vertical window and had a look out across to the other walls of brick and draped windows, craned my head up and into a pure clean Spanish sky framed in the collective of final floors. I had been awake for no more than four hours, had two measly beers under my belt and needed a nap. Slept naked, no covers; most likely had a dream of some sorts but cannot remember for the life of myself. My door almost ajar, ‘Please Disturb’ hanging on its knob. This my way and the opening of an eye, late afternoon, bed number 2 and the justification for being on holiday, spending money and the words that will leave my mouth when stepping off the return plane and running into friend or relative, the person at the local pharmacy inquiring as to the where the tanned face was obtained: in Spain with an ex-girlfriend - and the ability to kill a conversation, the willingness to omit or embellish where needed.
To my slow creak of long brass latch splitting open vertical glass on other side of the hallway, to a quick sniff down into that stone courtyard of closed for the while. To the stairs, to the street, to a left or right, a subtle adjustment to my money belt tucked inside of a waist walking me through the alleys of shops and restaurants, the ingrained churches and children playing together on their steps; I held onto the rope and faded into the background, pretended I was them and local and not with the sartorially-challenged storming around with their pallid knees exposed in the later of a March.
“Guapa, guapa,” he gave her.
The girls are pleasing, and that randy old man tapping his unlit ciggie on the back of his hand had reminded of a whistle learned in Torrent: attractive, and the beauty of a female slangily implied, virtue an ‘a’ on that end of his say. Because she had been strutting, by herself and the neck of vanilla to my nose. Him slow turning thought away from the accentuation of her cleft and calf to light his Spanish cigarrillo and allow me to perhaps move through a store door and happen upon holograms of colourful people trapped inside of glass boxes, celebrities and clowns visible when one stopped looking behind two-dimensional frame and merely peered into and around the corner of flat picture.
A trinket purchased for a series of euros.
A spot of tea funked up with parts ginseng and essence of pineapple, its given name I have forgotten but does not really matter beyond the scrap of paper and time with myself and hippies remaining to this day the world over. Poetry on the walls of their three-steps-down bistro of few and imaginary pen in my hand. Dear X, have you at all been this side of La Rambla, or have we divided neighbourhoods without a word or lawyer.
I paid and omitted a tip, thanked the girl with my necessary lisp of the gracias, received a crooked stare from that curly-hair intellectual with perfect taste in song and tea - maybe because I was from away. Wonderful enough, and I returned to the asymmetry of the Gòtic, its penumbras sometimes too small for the average map. The air cool if one within the narrows of little or no commerce, shadowed by its beautifully run-down apartments with street level buzzers remaining nearest this language not nearly understood.
The smell of bread - the implication of olive oil, until emerging not for fresh breath but because I was an inevitable child of crowded cities, more or less drawn at some point to witness and comment and revel and crawl away with a satisfied sneer. Eventually, everyone and their knapsack walks past Los Caracoles with the outdoor rotisserie built into the side of its wall and marvels and sniffs and leans and falls the last few steps of street and alley towards Plaça Reial; under an arch, and into the full of sunlight within the plaza, the travellers and exchange of money I had been blaming for dragging me out of the shade. I tied my flannel around my waist and sat down at the fountain’s edge; smoked a ciggie and slowly said no thanks to the global whispers from sides of mouths offering up things wrapped in foil, familiar sights and gifts from the hidden garden.
I watched the various of palm growing next to electric lampposts, up from stone, pierced concrete; fountain water trickled and people stopped and wished, threw the honoured faces of the world up and into the sound of me submitting a silent apologia for my earlier curse towards this spot. Turned my head up I did, towards the warmth that was the underarms, the backs of the knees, the between toes sweating within my sock and Nike shoe. Yes, the parts of the planet that were specifically me composing a list of things to do: sate a nostalgia for a bocadillo; to open my mouth and not stutter but speak fluid and quick.
To a stroll amongst the random notions of tourists, locals knowing where they were headed. The buskers working their magic for the cornered sips in the outdoor cafés. To my full crossing of the plaza, beneath another arch, into a crowded side street with a glimpse of La Rambla.
A round Guinness sign seen hung above a door; the pause and the guilt that was my liver and my brain calling their respective consciences.
This was Barcelona. There was Molly’s Fair City with the oak doors flung wide open towards a Centretown flashback: but this wasn’t Spain. Dear Fonzie, I step across this way and enter a pub with the hopes that they slow pour the stout, that you are within and we can talk casual.
English or Irish, the etymology of one busty Molly Malone on the marquee was the same difference to my eyes sitting at the wood, trying to order a Guinness in Spanish from a guy I had just heard speak perfect English, albeit with a British accent. I gave him a thank you with the lisp and he sent me a funny look for my troubles, his stance akimbo as his vacationing countrymen bellied up to the bar and spoke their blue-collar to the other bartender, a black-haired Spaniard replying with a ¿que? The two lads repeated themselves, in a slower and louder version of the original, asked my bartender if he could “Oy, stick on some Coldplay?” Because he was near the stereo, happened to be whiter.
And no bar tabs to be run in that Fair tourist City of Molly. Ice cubes were grabbed with tongs, and I do believe that the panelling was not veneer but of a true thick wood.
In the Caribbean, the straw in given rum or vodka concoction comes with half the wrapper still on, proof of sanitization. Sorry. I flipped out my euros as I drank, leaving small tips and my Spanish thanks
A friendly lean, his colour of hair: “There’s no lisp in Barcelona, mate.”
I was in Catalunya, and it was regular old gra-ci-as, thank you very much. Sweet enough, I gave the speaker of at least two languages and pourer of good Guinness, feeling his pain of serving Jack-and-Cokes to people just off the plane, out of taxi, into hotel and shiny shorts and onto pub, already back home, their lilting songs on the Spanish stereo. I scribbled away at a figment of my separation: This place is a beacon for the English language. It is not Spain.
There I sat, with them. The Spanish and the steady drizzle of Yanks and Brits, Irish. Danes. The cigarettes and stout filling my stomach with food and the social aspect that responds to the question “Where are you from?” asked in English. I lived in Ottawa, and he was from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. One of us lit the other’s ciggie, but he was very good looking. The dirty blonde hair, slightly tanned face, red in cheeks; he not so near the Jesus Years of myself. After the initial, we spent the usual next five ten minutes tacitly convincing each other that we were not gay. Talking about every girl, reasons behind the perfect Spanish ass.
My dreamy American went by the for real name Damien, which I say and use out loud because - as my father would have say - when am I ever gonna see this person again. Together we loosened one another’s lips, whet our whistles on a shared appreciation for good beers; he sipped on the Bombardier, an ale, and I continued to draw hearts in the head of my Guinness, trying to explain what it was that I was doing in Barco, paring Las Fallas down to three sentences or less, reaching for one more cigarette before adding that I, too, was merely hanging out, doing stuff. The both of us free. Me a bartender, he pursing a Master’s in environmental studies. Young.
And in true Centretown fashion my ex-girlfriend walked through the doorway. Sounds made-up, a lie to compensate for, but as You know full well this could not be any further from the truth. My eyes moved from the baby blue of Damien’s.
“Saw the Guinness sign …and just knew that you would be in here.” No handshake, only a laugh from her and that long curly hair that still had not been blow-dried straight. But the usual introductions, the offering up of the male seat. We spoke North American, bought her a beer in basic Spanish.
“Did you notice that Corona is called Coronita in Spain? Look, over there in the glass fridge.” Neither of them had shepherded this valuable piece of knowledge. They smiled and spoke a pair of monotone ‘hmms.’
“He lives for things like this. Go ahead, Hen, say something else stupid and utterly useless. Do it.” And I do not exactly remember how it was I had presented her to Damien - whether it was as my friend, my girlfriend, my ex, this is X. But there be over a million locals in Barcelona, thousands more of the tourist variety teeming the streets and museums and parks and churches and places to hide and perchance compose a letter or meet new people and attempt a fresh start. But she was there, wearing her little denim ensemble, saying cigarette with a ‘w’ instead of an ‘r’ - showing her roots.
I told Damien that I was entirely not that bad. Explained to them about the provincial lisp and the nuances of something as prosaic as thank you.
She let that one go with barely a smirk - had a glow of her, a fresh from the sun of a wide promenade.
“But I see that you came here, too, senorita - get tired of trying to speak Spanish? Yes no?” And these not fighting words. No straight smile from her to me; and a nod from Damien just two days off the plane from U.S.A. My question for her and the group because I had earned the right to open my mouth and not speak in the manner of the Spanish for a brief respite.
“How do you say more ?” Mas, I gave him, adding that indeed that was what a beleaguered Roberto Duran had said to referee and Sugar Ray Leonard in putting an end to their infamous last title fight: No mas - no more. Damien returned me, “Hmm,” and turned to order himself another ale in the language of the land.
We exchanged the hostel stories - the varying level of privacy. I inquired of any discovered treasures, but neither had bothered. Always do, I implored. Had they strolled down La Rambla, seen the buskers, been by the chicken rotisserie just the other side of the plaza. How was the Spanish going. Questions asked and answered in English. A smattering of Spaniards in that pub of ours.
An Irish Car Bomb: a shot of Bailey’s and Irish whiskey spelled with an e is dropped into a glass of Guinness. Chugged.
“You came together, but you’re not together?” Exactly, she said him.
“Kind of, mostly,” was my great contribution. “You’d have to hear the whole sordid saga to fully understand that f.u.b.a.r. is the proper pronunciation - is that a Canadian saying?” X shrugged but Damien assured me that it might even be American in stock. Fair enough, I gave them. Settled and moved on from. And she was rubbing her left eyebrow, about to leave me with the fair Damien. She was off to her dorm room full of girls, co-ed bathroom down the hall. To meet friends. Wonderful, I provided her.
And in conduct with the traditions of the land she double-kissed the red cheeks of Damien, officially welcomed him to Spain. Smiled me a promise of absolutely nothing, supposed that I could have been big and set the two of them up - sat in the corner and watched them whilst feeding my mouth with a handful of grapes. But this would be a lie and beyond the good-bye that was merely one part of town in a very large city; I watched her move through open oak doors with the supreme knowledge of a certain tattoo just within concealment. And I cannot really say where Damien’s eyes lay, do not wish to think You any forced thoughts of the man who lived north enough to know what an icing call was, played my position in high school rugby. He tried a Fortuna, and I stole my very first Marlboro.
“You’re giving up dope to concentrate on cigarettes? That’s fucked up, Henry.”
“Hey, they laughed at Jesus didn’t they?”
“No, not exactly they didn’t. But, so, this is on sound religious grounds then?” I sucked my Americana, shook my head and left out the significance of particular time in my life - my convenient excuse.
“What do you think of just before you fall asleep?” I paid for my Irish beer in Spanish, omitted the lisp in thanking my perfectly bilingual British bartender. “Never mind. It’s different most every night, right. But given a good go, it is a rather short straight look at stuff - a small invention maybe thought up while sitting quietly on your toilet.” Damien ‘hmm’d’ me, and I furthered him this: “This little fire stick is my ticket to straight thought. Man, weed was just my wish for fancy vacation.”
The young American sucked harder on a cigarette low in nicotine, drew it deeper into the lungs. Coughed and then giggled at my expense. “I have been smoking since I was sixteen, and I can - honestly - say that I have never considered it in that way, as therapeutic.” We fought over some adjectives and then I asked him point blank what he was afraid of - was he on the run from something. “No. No girl. I’m just travelling and relaxing, maybe I’ll take a boat trip out to Mallorca. I really don’t want to find or lose myself.”
I grinned and blamed my line of questioning on the strength of them Marlboros. More tweaking needed with the mechanics of the theory, was the way that I put the Fortuna into my mouth. “What do you say we leave this English behind, huh? Between the two of us we should be able to string a few Spanish sentences together.” The beautiful Damien agreed, actually said What the fuck. And we walked through the open oak doors. He had heard of a club way up La Rambla and I followed, nothing to lose.
The couples, the embraced lovers we passed. The packs of young men in soccer shorts, crew cuts, loud European football songs. The erotica museum that we paused at on the way, that was closed for the night and resumed us on our crawl.
“Is that how you say Black Sheep?” he wondered, and I supposed that we had found the place. All we wanted was beer and music. Something Spanish.
“Yo soy Canadian,” I announced to the doorman, “him American.” And he took our cover anyway, let us walk through that wine cellar of a club that refused to play us any music.
“Do you see that girl in the skinny mini? She smokes a pack-and-a-half a day. Guaranteed.” The Mediterranean diet, local water, their genetics that had Damien staring and guessing about the Spanish ass.
“That would make her very thoughtful then, wouldn’t it?” The lighting was perfectly dimmed for the music that wasn’t there; one could hear a person talk not ten feet away, hear the mix of the collective. “The chica in the second-skin jeans over there - that butt has to be working on at least two packs a day.”
Damien went for beer and quickly returned with rumours of the English language having been spoken as a native tongue; I smiled into my cigarette and immediately set us off on discovery. “Have you ever been in a bar scrap?” And he couldn’t really decide if I was joking or not; this possibly sturdy Damien pointed the general direction and told me that he was in, actually said What the fuck and let me lead the way of folly and perhaps too much nicotine-thought coursing itself throughout myself.
Next to that bar of certain size and shape, within an archipelago of confab that was the simple mingling of persons - Damien and this: “That’s them. These two guys here were speaking English with an Australian accent.” Was this true, I demanded of them, above the rise of people talking amongst the lack of music in a club not more than a block off La Rambla. And indeed it was, they responded in that always convivial manner - the two strapping lads with sideburns of length presenting forth simultaneous hands of the right variety. “What do you have to say for yourselves? Do you wish to seek counsel at this moment, or perhaps that bouncer over there?” I remember the surf in their eyes, have a story to tell of Damien laughing out loud just as the shots of tequila were sliding down our four throats.
In Quebec, there be a branch of provincial government bureaucracy commonly referred to in English as the language police; its mandate is the preservation and invention of new French word to maintain with the global infestation of Franglais.
To the washrooms, to our waves to the mates, to that long strip called La Rambla. To a return walk into the evening roll of small European cars showing off on a pleasant Thursday, cruising and hoping for a stare in while they pretended not to be looking out. Past the McDonald’s tastefully situated within stone of lime; presumably, a Burger King around somewhere near but never did we find, even after asking for King Hamburger in Spanish, that bit of slow English that introduced us to three university students who had watched enough American TV to indicate to us that there was none around. There was to be no satisfying of Damien’s and my late night craving for a flame-broiled Whopper - drunk food; the one of them - a girl of maybe jet-black hair and eyes to visualize - spoke a few more words, knew of a club and decided to ditch her friends and take us there. I believe that to be what happened; we were led back beneath an archway, returned to the Plaça Reial. She held Damien’s hand and continued to slow speak Spanish to us; we barked short ticker tapes of her native to this wondrous little creature parading us past the centre fountain and down the stairs of a name that does not really matter beyond the heavy pound of house music beneath its florescent and neon lights. I yelled into Damien’s ear and he mine; this girl believed to be called Avellana danced by herself for awhile and we didn’t, but I am not exactly sure if it was quite as exciting as I may be presenting.
There was some ron con limón courtesy my Spanish, and then snips and pieces of we three leaning into each other, but eventually she was off, talking up a group of people - maybe friends she was to meet; nonetheless, eventually going gone from sight. Fair enough, I waved after her, and told Damien that the place wasn’t really my scene.
The beautiful American followed me up and out into the fresh air that was the plaza and its closed-for-the-night cafés. “I thought you had an in with this saucy little Avellana, man.”
“I thought so, too. A goddamn pack-and-a-half-a-day ass to boot.” He had wanted to baffle her with higher learning, perhaps tutor her many studies. He had desired to do what I had wished to do with her, if I wasn’t still kinda sort of betrothed to the fair X of Ottawa, Canada.
3-something-in-the-A.M. We tried once the more with the exchanging of the cigarettes, tweaked the thought theory some more; after a few puffs it was decided to walk back to our respective hostels, Damien having set up in the Gòtic, as well.
Our sneakers carried us to the outdoor chicken rotisserie joint, into the warren of alleys that be that oldest part of town; past the rows of Vespas set to kickstand. To the front of a building flying a hostel flag and the lodging that be what he found for cheaper than mine - small talk and he invited me in, had a speak to the elderly man working the late desk; a peek by him shot over Damien’s shoulder, a sneer directed to me. I supposed that I could have spent the six seven minutes of conversation time needed to convince this old man that I was neither gay nor dangerous; my theories on cigarettes with respect to philosophy and the leanness of a Spanish female’s ass most surely would have wiped the disdain from his scowl. All this I had no doubt of as I waved to Damien and stumbled off into the stale piss streets of Barcelona dark.
A little later than 3-something-in-that-A.M. Mere blocks away from my hostel and choice of two beds; I knew this by the very fact that we had just left them spits and their chickens taken in for the night: this was my neighbourhood. I stepped through and through, absolutely positive with every turn of corner that I would see the street named Avinyó written on the side of a building. But I was lost, with no dropped cookie bits to prevent me from walking in circles - and yet absolutely sure that I still knew my surroundings and with next step would be a left or right away.
I could lie and say that I didn’t sit down on a stone bench in a small square and almost have me a good cry, but I definitely won’t be doing that. In true Centretown fashion the Barri Gòtic should have just let me find my merry way home after an hour, laughs for everyone.
But not so much the second time I walked myself past the sight of lovely chickens no longer in the fire. Two guys taking garbage out, dirty water running the alleys that were my maze, not my Centretown. And I could just hear birds chirping the start of sight as I rang the buzzer, walked up marble stairs and retrieved my passport from another elderly man with a scowl on his face. Wonderful.
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