Screen Dreams

Today I finally reached the city of __________ famed the world over for its astonishingly beautiful architecture. As soon as we disembarked I made my way to the central plaza, a big smile on my face like a child on his way to the toyshop. Not only was I impatient to see at first hand the idiosyncratic buildings and the monumental sculptures, but also the people who lived here. I was curious to know if living in one of the world's most beautiful cities would rub off on the inhabitants, thus imbuing them with special qualities. I imagined smiling faces radiating benevolence to each other, heads tilted back in awe, and receptive not only to the beauty of all about, but to each and everyone's humanity. 

But when I stepped off the bus and gazed around, my first sensation was one of confusion. Heads were not raised to the glistening mosaic towers piercing the blue sky, or the abundant and extraordinary artworks, but bent forward, looking down at an object in their hands, which I noticed all had glowing screens. 

Several reasons for this strange phenomenon came to me simultaneously: The inhabitants all suffered from an inability to navigate autonomously, which these devices remedied; They might also suffer from some mental disorder that the glowing screens somehow pacified and controlled; The devices were a form of tagging for those who had transgressed the law. This last idea was perhaps the least plausible because of the sheer number of people concerned.

My sense of disorientation only deepened as once again I gazed up at the towers. The colours of the mosaics were not as bright as they were intended to be, the ornamental metalwork was dull and tarnished, and the windows were dirty, cracked and broken.

Everything looked rather shabby and uncared for, as if the city itself had sensed the indifference of the people, and no longer really cared how it looked.

Fashion

OK, I've had my nose ring installed, my eyelids and nipples pierced, full scrotum wax, earlobes stretched, tongue studded, and the last available square inch of my epidermis filled in with another tattoo (Che Guevara). I do this to express my individuality and anti-conformist tendencies. After all, I'd rather drop down dead than go round looking like everyone else . . .

May Day Barcelona

At last I find a Bodega in a little back alley which not only seems to be authentic — it doesn't have a chalkboard outside proclaiming: 

MOJITO, CAIPIRINHA, GIN & TONIC — ONLY €4.50

Not easy to find in this part of town. 

I find myself in La Bodega del Born.

The woman behind the counter is of a certain age and has luxuriant red-hair tied back with a band. 

For no discernible reason my eyes are drawn to her scalp, assuming that some kind of intervention has occurred here.

I ask for a glass of vino tinto. 

“Si, si, señor,” she replies affirmatively, plonks three bottles on the counter in front of me accompanied by three glasses, into which she pours a generous splash from each bottle. 

There's a first time for everything, as the saying goes.

The air outside is heavily laden with a complex mixture of challenging olfactory stimulants. 

The sewers have regurgitated one of their occasional belches, there is a potent concoxion of cigarette and marijuana smoke, wafting scooter exhaust fumes, tom cat spray, urine, and just a piquancy of the dry dust of Catalan independence ambition.

It's a difficult choice. 

Colombian Harp

My only previous experience of the South American harp was the Paraguayan variety, but this was José playing the Colombian harp in one of the back streets near the cathedral in Barcelona.

Bodega Montse

Discovered a great bar this evening, everything hung with blackened cobwebs, and coated in a grimy layer of nicotine. 

Old guys with weathered brown faces, white stubble poking through, more gaps than teeth.

Barrels stacked up against the walls, and the vino dispensed from plastic bottles without labels, innocuous on the counter top, or from the vintage fridge, if you are drinking white.

At €1 a glass, no one was complaining, least of all me.

Sadly there are not many bars around like this any more, the few that have escaped the makeover and modernisation, perhaps to make them more palatable to the tourists.

Seems to me they're making a big mistake.

Spitting Image

I get on the overground train from Rectory Road heading south through the collision of ancient streets and buildings that is Hackney. As soon as we pull out of the station a woman walks through the compartment placing photocopied slips of paper on the seats beside the passengers. Underneath each slip is a handy-sized packet of tissues in a clear polythene wrapper. Her movements are practiced, almost mechanical. The note states she is not a beggar, has a family, and needs some money to help her get a job. We can make make a contribution, or perhaps buy a packet of tissues.

Almost as soon as she's laid them out (and before we the next stop) she starts to gather them up again. There is no judgement in her expression for the negative response she receives.

Then a guy on crutches emerges through the connecting door from the adjoining carriage.

“Sorry to bother you,” he says, speaking to no one in particular, “but could you help me by giving me some money to buy some food, I'd really appreciate it.”

No one stirs.

I think of saying — “Sorry mate, everyone is suffering from compassion fatigue.” But I hesitate, and the moment is lost.

He shuffles off down the aisle saying, “OK, thank you every one. God bless and have a nice day.” Then repeats his pitch to the second half of the compartment.

I'm still pondering the plight of the homeless, and that I don't want to feel guilty if I don't shell out to everyone who asks, when I realise the train has stopped at London Fields, and that the other passengers have already departed.

I rush towards the exit but the doors shut before I make it.

I silently curse the guy with his crutches and his spiel, and also my own subsequent thoughts on the matter which distracted me.

I'll just have to get off at the next station and get a train back — unless I can get to Broadway Market from Cambridge Heath perhaps?

I ask the young woman who is standing next to me by the doors, and I can't help but notice that she has been crying.

I ask her if she's all right.

“Yeah,” she says, unconvincingly.

As we get off the train I say, “Go on tell me, what's the matter?”

“I've just been dumped,” she says, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

I'm relived it's nothing more serious, but I put my hand on her shoulder and tell her that the person concerned was obviously wasn't worth it, that there are plenty more fish in the sea, and to believe in herself.

The steps down from the platform to street level are narrow and smell of urine.

At the bottom there is a puddle of green phlegm on the ground, freshly ejected because no one has yet stepped in it.

It's in the shape of an electric guitar, and not any old electric guitar — it's definitely a Fender Stratocaster.