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Homage to Barcelona - Demons & Dragons
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I remember the strange humidity during that first September in
the city. I remember the rancid smells and the constant noise as
steel shutters were pulled up and down. I remember the sound of
cars and motorbikes reverberating against the old stone buildings,
the footfalls and voices which echoed in the narrow streets. It
was 1975, two months before the death of General Franco. I was
twenty years old and had just arrived in Barcelona.
The buildings on the Rambla, the long tree-lined walk
between the Plac¸a deCatalunya and the port, were as dierent as
each face which sized you up for a split second before it passed.
The Rambla, busy all the time, was a whole new world to wander
in and discover. The kiosks selling newspapers and books were
open day and night. During the day one stretch had kiosks selling
flowers, another had kiosks with animals for sale. People sat at the
outside tables for hours on end staring at passers-by.
I knew no Spanish, but I understood that the Rambla had its
own customs, its own rules. The prostitutes, for example, didn’t
seem to come up from the port beyond a certain point. Also
nobody seemed to be going anywhere in particular. Most people
seemed to be idly strolling. On Sunday mornings families filled
the Rambla, walked up and down under the shade of the plane
trees. I tried out each bar. I stood at the kiosks and tried to
decipher the newspaper headlines and the titles of books.
One night, while close to the Cathedral, I strayed into a small
square through a narrow alleyway. It was quiet and dark and
hidden away. One of the walls had been badly damaged by shrapnel
or bullets. Nobody came through the alleyway while I was there
and there was no sound except a trickle of water from a small
fountain in the middle of the square.
I began to haunt the old city. I could hardly wait for darkness.
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