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.