I'm sitting outside a little Bodega in the vicinity of the Sagrada Família, a glass of Cava at a precarious angle to the perpendicular on the pavement table in front of me.
I'm thinking about life, the universe, and a few other things, when a guy in a wheelchair pushes himself past up the hill.
It's an old fashioned model, pre electric, so after every forward thrust he has to catch the wheels' rubber rims least he slip back down the hill.
I abandon my table and the glass of Cava, grab the handles of the wheelchair and push him up the hill as far as he wants to go.
I notice that his brow is moist from the effort, and that the wheelchair's footrests are entirely redundant as both his legs are missing from the crutch down.
Meanwhile he thanks me profusely, "Gracias, gracias señor," and other words I do not catch or understand.
And having put my own trivial concerns aside for a brief moment, all I can say is the usual automatic response — "De nada," (it's nothing), which for once seems entirely appropriate.
I'm thinking about life, the universe, and a few other things, when a guy in a wheelchair pushes himself past up the hill.
It's an old fashioned model, pre electric, so after every forward thrust he has to catch the wheels' rubber rims least he slip back down the hill.
I abandon my table and the glass of Cava, grab the handles of the wheelchair and push him up the hill as far as he wants to go.
I notice that his brow is moist from the effort, and that the wheelchair's footrests are entirely redundant as both his legs are missing from the crutch down.
Meanwhile he thanks me profusely, "Gracias, gracias señor," and other words I do not catch or understand.
And having put my own trivial concerns aside for a brief moment, all I can say is the usual automatic response — "De nada," (it's nothing), which for once seems entirely appropriate.
