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.