Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Dorothy and the Prince of Cats

I´m plucking my whiskers//Follow the yellow brick road, follow the yellow brick road
I feel too tired and cbf to write anything most of the time but I will make an effort to record my impressions of the last few days in Spain. Katy Perry is on the TV, looking like a dick. We went out to bars a couple of nights ago. On the way we walked past the 'swank' hotel lobby in Nou de la Rambla. There was a man sitting on the couch in the window. He was handsome, 40s, well-dressed all in black. There was something movie-like in the moment we saw him. It was very late at night and he was alone, as were we. I stopped and just looked and he gave me an odd rueful smile. In that moment I made up an entire back story - he was a rich Spanish guy waiting for his horrible but pretty date who was taking far too long in the hotel room upstairs. It sounds so corny when I write that but there was genuine melancholy in his air and I have a flighty imagination.
I think we stayed too long and he became uncomfortable with us watching him. He got up and walked out of the light of the couch lamp and out of view. He stayed on my mind a lot that night. There was a lingering sense of something gone undone, something incomplete about our encounter, as if I had been expecting him to come to the door and gesture us to come inside.
I'm forgetting things already.
We found two old Spanish men in a small, mosaic-ed bar that night. I can't remember their names. They had been friends since they were very small. S spoke to them in Italian and I in English and French and they replied in Spanish. They held each other and kissed each other. I do not think they were gay. The larger, fatter one with the ponytail kissed the smaller one's mole, on his cheek. The smaller one told us he lived 'over the moon.' We all smoked the fat one's cigarettes.
They invited us to see the view from the fat one's apartment, above the bar. He had plants on the balcony. We said no.
Money is a problem here. I don't have enough. People are touchy. Some of them help the tourists, the others don't. A waiter yelled at me for taking a menu from one table to another, then tripped on a crack in the ground. I laughed.
Today a guy asked us to come into his store. They all do here. We went inside. He told us we could have anything we wanted for 5 euros. There were a collection of variously sized wooden penises on a high bench in the middle of the rest of the items - pants and tops and household items. S cracked up. The shopkeeper, young, Indian, groped my back and said 'Oh she like, she like.' I cracked up too and tried to drag S out of the shop. He held onto her. She pulled away. He watched us, poking his head out of the doorway as we staggered down the alley

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