He awoke to the buzzing of two-cycle mopeds forcing their way through the morning rush hour. Still jet lagged, it seemed as good a time as any to arise. The habitation was small, as dictated by the European spec, but rich in subtle style. When he had arrived it had been the dead of night and he had scowled at the prospect of shelling out so much. Now he could discern why.
The walls were an off-white satin patina and the tall chocolate window curtains partitioned a full balcony that alighted above the busy plaza. The particular plaza was located between Barcelona’s Barri Gòtic and Las Ramblas. It afforded him easy access to several metro stops and came highly recommended in travel forums.
George, or Jorge as he was temporarily called, was embarking on a two-month cultural sabbatical in Spain. On leave from his employer, a small liberal arts school in the states, he aimed to pen several cultural anthropology pieces on modern Spanish society. Particularly how the youth were coping with the barren job market. His Spanish was so-so and his Catalan nonexistent. Still, he hoped to conduct field interviews on the coattails of goodwill.
He showered in the closet stall of a bathroom and spent a few minutes on his balcony. The plaza was modern by Spanish standards; a wide avenue ran circular around a mélange of palms, benches, and large central fountain. Pedestrians marched like Pizarros embarking on the day’s excursion. A few street performers played to the foot soldiers warming up for their main Ramblas acts.
A quick trip to the continental breakfast and he was off. He decided to hop the nouveau metro and head to the city’s unset crown jewel, La Sagrada Familia. The walk to the underground station snaked him through several blocks of the gothic quarter. It was as if the streets hemmed themselves. Thoroughfares became alleys and each home shouldered in on the next. Overhead they towered, their balconies intersecting at peculiar angles and heights. The sun seemed more reluctant to capitulate to the day’s duties here. A victrola crooned from a balcony laden with white linen. The dust kicked up from the stones fashioned a fog at which the sun’s columned rays futility beat.
Jorge found the platform crowded, a sea of unspoken cadence. He marveled at the Spanish style du jour. Men in tailored silk suits brushed against teenagers in absurdly tight jeans, graphic t-shirts and hair which seemed to be cut purposefully to tatters. On the train, the impending station name crawled across an orange ticker near the ceiling. He was quite impressed.
The unfinished cathedral was unlike any church he had seen. Natural patterns flowed through elaborate marble cornices and tree-like pillars of flecked pepper and sand grafted to the vaulted ceiling. He felt that its incomplete state was actually a more perfect reflection of Gaudí’s dream – nature in motion.
He retreated a few blocks away for a light al fresco lunch. He discovered a subdued microplaza ringed by several local haunts. There he took in several cañas of beer from a wooden cask and a heaping pile of succulent fried anchovies. Feeling content with his morning, he decided to return to his hotel for a well earned siesta.
Jorge slowly retraced his steps to the metro, basking in the early spring sun. He loved the contrast between the bold warmth and the sublime subterranean cool of the platform. He had planned his trip to end before the height of tourist season, but such a destination was never truly native. Ahead on the platform two such tourists chatted amicably, their backpacks and walking shoes fingering them as such. Jorge was about to glance away when he noticed something odd. A young Spanish couple, seemingly innocuous, had drifted up behind them. They held hands, but their furtive glances belied their innocence. One at a time they carefully pecked at the backpacks zipper. They alternated until they were able to peer inside and scan the contents. Finding nothing of interest, they shifted to the other. He contemplated taking action, but hesitated. This was perfect field observation for his work. The pickpockets in question were surely stealing out of necessity and he didn’t wish to disturb the natural order of things. Before he could oscillate further, his train arrived.
The siesta was as fulfilling as he hoped. He spent two hours in bed, the latter half switching between La Liga highlights. Apparently FC Barcelona had lost against rival Sevilla the day prior and analysts painted a demure picture for the coming days. He had purposefully chosen a hotel that did not offer wireless and it restrained him from logging on to field peer queries and the like.
Dusk rolled into his dwelling and stole the promise of day. The off-white walls ceased to amplify the impression of space as they inched closer to the bed. He changed from his well worn travel clothes into a collared shirt and sport jacket. After inquiring with the hostess about a destination for la cena, he struck out in the direction of Las Ramblas.
Jorge decided to start at Las Ramblas base and work his way uphill stopping in to peck at recommended spots. The journey began at the city’s harbor. An ocher moon fell upon undulating ripples, the water’s surface a sheet of molten gold. He happened upon his first stop tucked away down a long street running perpendicular to Las Ramblas. It was nestled between two far set lampposts, their light barely scratching the graffiti’d wall of the restaurant’s façade. Inside flamenco music blasted from a bar crowned lengthwise by a chalkboard displaying the menu and price for both sizes – tapa y ración.
His modest Spanish and hand gestures earned a grunt from the barkeep who set upon a wheel of Manchego with feverous knife skills. Jorge enjoyed the rich, nutty cheese and washed it down with a dry Rioja tinto. The clientele was local and blue collar. His jacket suddenly afforded him less confidence than usual. One table, occupied by several men, was paying particular notice to his presence. He tried avoiding their quiet stares cast through plumes of cigarette smoke.
Just as he was about to settle his bill, he felt a hand clasp his shoulder from behind. A few gold-rimmed coins fumbled onto the pine bar.
“You must be more careful with your cash,” said the man in a thick Catalan accent.
Jorge’s first reaction was to spin around, but he thought better and calmly gathered his money.
Turning his head at an angle he replied in his best Spanish. “Why of course. I was just making sure it’s real. You can never trust the damn government.”
The response drew a chuckle from the stranger, but Jorge detected an edge to it. The hand and the man retreated back to the table. He didn’t want to appear vulnerable, so he calmly finished his glass and strolled out the front door, taking note of the menial wall art.
Outside he drew the chilled night air deep before heading directly back to Las Ramblas. There he took solace in the throngs of groups and couples out on leisurely tapas crawls. Something about the men’s demeanor gave him a squeamish feeling and he decided to call it a night. He stopped at a small bar near his hotel and ordered a scotch to subdue his brooding thoughts.
Not content with heading straight back, he diverged a few blocks and skirted the Barri Gòtic. Now the passageways seemed to stretch, depthless in shadow. All visible balcony doors and shutters were drawn and the place held an unsettling coolness. The air seemed lighter in the very center of the street, but its margins proffered a weighty darkness that swirled his vision.
He made his way to his room without a glance at the expectant hostess. Upon reaching it, he flung the balcony doors wide and collapsed face up on the comforter. He lay for some time in the dark, letting the sound of rushing water from the plaza fountain roll over him. Eventually he arose and ventured onto the balcony.
The plaza was mostly dead save for a few people engaged in a quiet botellón. The moon marched slowly over the roofline and the palms cast short shadows upon their own canopies. Suddenly a ruckus broke out towards the periphery of the plaza, near his perch. Jorge peered over the railing.
He observed two men draping a third between them while a fourth paced back and forth in front. They were talking in hushed and hurried tones, but he could not discern the topic. Abruptly the pacing man lunged forward towards the trio and the draped man went completely limp. Jorge attempted to stifle his shock, but a trickle of sound escaped his throat. Immediately one of the men glanced upwards. Recoiling from the railing, he made several hurried lunges back to the room.
Paralysis set in. He didn’t dare close the balcony doors or draw the curtains. Since he had been lying in the dark and neglected to switch on any lights, he couldn’t now. The only feasible action was to bolt his door and be still. He tested his room phone and placed it within easy reach.
Jorge slept through fits of unease. At times anxiety would push his heartbeat towards a perceived apex as he strained to hear anything from beyond his balcony. Nothing but a few drunken chants and choruses reached him though. He kept replaying the scene over in his mind trying to decide if the man had been in grave danger. The upturned face had seemed vaguely familiar; he envisioned him as one of the men seated at the bar table. It couldn’t possibly be, he thought. He was merely confusing one Spaniard for another. Eventually his jet lag trumped all and he fell into a listless, shallow sleep.
He awoke in the morning with a start. Sunlight streamed in unimpeded and tacked itself to the walls. The night’s events seemed distant and surreal but nonetheless hampered his thought process. He resolved to check out of the hotel and relocate to another part of town. He reasoned staying there would be madness.
He packed his belongings with haste. A quick policing of the room revealed no abandoned objects. He donned his backpack and hesitated before making his exit. The temptation to scan the plaza from his balcony for any clues was overwhelming. Overriding it, he reached for the bolt handle, but a sudden flash of heat coursed from his shoulders through his toes, freezing him. There on the ground lay a piece of white paper. His hand shook with violence as he bent to grasp it. Scribbled in blue pen was the phrase, “Lo Siento, Lo Siento.”
Jorge dropped the sheet as if it were white-hot nickel. Springing the bolt, he rushed from the room. Onto Las Ramblas he poured, seeking shelter in unadulterated humanity. So self absorbed, he failed to take note of a young couple trolling close to his backpack.
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