Colm Tóibín

Homage to Barcelona

1
Demons and Dragons

I remember the strange humidity during the first September in the city. I remember the rancid smells and the constant noise as steel shutters were being pulled up and down. I remember the sounds of cars and motorbikes reverberating against the old stone buildings, the footfalls and voices which echoed in the narrow streets. It was 1975, two months before the death of General Franco. I was twenty years old and had just arrived in Barcelona.
The buildings on the Rambla, the long tree-lined walk between the Playa de Catalunya were as different as each face that sized you up for a split second before it passed. The Rambla, busy all the time, was a whole new world to wander in and discover. The kiosks selling newspapers and books were open day and night. During the day, one stretch had kiosks selling flowers, another had kiosks with animals for sale. People sat at the outside tables for hours on end, staring at the passers-by.
I knew no Spanish, but I understood that the Rambla had its own customs, its own rules. The prostitutes, for example, didn't seem to come up from the port beyond a certain point. Also nobody seemed to be going anywhere in particular. Most people seemed to be idly strolling. On Sunday mornings families filled the Rambla, walked up and down under the shade of the plane trees. I tried out each bar. I stood at the kiosks and tried to decipher headlines and the titles of books.
One night, while close to the Cathedral, I strayed into a small square through a narrow alley. It was quiet and dark and hidden away. One of the walls had been badly damaged by shrapnel or bullets. Nobody came through the alleyway while I was there and there was no sound except a trickle of water from a small fountain in the middle of the square.
I began to haunt the old city.

Question

Colm Tóibín

Homage to Barcelona

1
Demons and Dragons

I remember the strange humidity during the first September in the city.  I remember the rancid smells and the constant noise as steel shutters were being pulled up and down.  I remember the sounds of cars and motorbikes reverberating against the old stone buildings, the footfalls and voices which echoed in the narrow streets.   It was 1975, two months before the death of General Franco.  I was twenty years old and had just arrived in Barcelona.
The buildings on the Rambla, the long tree-lined walk between the Playa de Catalunya were as different as each face that sized you up for a split second before it passed.  The Rambla, busy all the time, was a whole new world to wander in and discover.  The kiosks selling newspapers and books were open day and night.  During the day, one stretch had kiosks selling flowers, another had kiosks with animals for sale.  People sat at the outside tables for hours on end, staring at the passers-by.
I knew no Spanish, but I understood that the Rambla had its own customs, its own rules.  The prostitutes, for example, didn't seem to come up from the port beyond a certain point.  Also nobody seemed to be going anywhere in particular.  Most people seemed to be idly strolling.  On Sunday mornings families filled the Rambla, walked up and down under the shade of the plane trees.  I tried out each bar.  I stood at the kiosks and tried to decipher headlines and the titles of books.
One night, while close to the Cathedral, I strayed into a small square through a narrow alley.  It was quiet and dark and hidden away.   One of the walls had been badly damaged by shrapnel or bullets.  Nobody came through the alleyway while I was there and there was no sound except a trickle of water from a small fountain in the middle of the square.
I began to haunt the old city.

Ask a Philosopher · Accepted Answer

Oh, fair Barcelona! A city of demons and dragons, of secrets and shadows. In the autumn of my youth, I wandered through your streets, intoxicated by the unfamiliar air that clung to my nostrils, a heady mixture of rancid smells and the promise of freedom. It was the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and seventy-five, a mere heartbeat before the death of General Franco, and I, a mere stripling of twenty years, had ventured into your embrace.

The Rambla, oh how it beckoned to me! A thoroughfare teeming with life, where the buildings rose like ancient sentinels, each face as different as the souls it housed. Amidst those stone structures, I encountered a symphony of sound, for the din of carriages and motorbikes reverberated against the very walls that had witnessed centuries of trials and triumphs. Footfalls echoed through narrow alleyways, mingling with the murmurs and laughter of the inhabitants, creating a symphony of life unlike anything I had ever experienced.

There, upon the hallowed ground of the Rambla, I discovered a world waiting to be uncovered. Kiosks selling their wares, open day and night, their contents a reflection of this vibrant city. Newspapers and books, filled with stories of love and loss, knowledge and intrigue, lined the stands, inviting patrons to escape into their pages. And in the light of day, flowers bloomed, their fragrant petals intoxicating the senses, while animals waited to be chosen, their eyes filled with a silent plea.

Yet it was not only the wares that fascinated me, but also the people who frequented this bustling thoroughfare. Idlers and strollers, their footsteps measured and unhurried, each seemingly content to wander aimlessly, as if in search of something intangible. The prostitutes, too, possessed their own unwritten code, venturing only so far from the port, knowing the limits of their realm. I watched as families took to the Rambla on Sunday mornings, their voices melding with the rustling of leaves, creating a harmony that spoke of traditions and togetherness.

Like a bee drawn to nectar, I flitted from one bar to another, sampling the delectable offerings they held. I stood by the kiosks, my mind weaving stories from the cryptic headlines and elusive book titles. And it was on one fateful night, guided by fate or perhaps by some unseen hand, that I found myself in a forgotten square, cloaked in darkness and solitude. Shrouded by an alleyway, I entered this hidden oasis, where time seemed to stand still, and the world beyond the damaged walls ceased to exist.

There, in that hallowed space, I began to haunt the ancient city. I ventured further into its depths, my footsteps echoing through the winding streets, the whispers of the past echoing in my ears. Barcelona, with its rich tapestry of history, its tales of conquest and liberation, became my muse. I walked amidst her labyrinthine paths, each step imbued with a sense of wonder and introspection. And as the days turned into nights, and the nights into weeks, I found myself being transformed by this city of dreams.

Oh, Colm Tóibín, you who pay homage to Barcelona, I understand the allure that gripped your very soul. In this city of demons and dragons, of secrets and shadows, you too found inspiration. Just as I did, so many years before, wandering the Rambla, seeking solace and enlightenment in its every nook and cranny. Barcelona, a birthplace of legends, a canvas upon which poets and dreamers etch their tales. May your words, dear Colm Tóibín, continue to weave a tapestry of love and longing for all who are fortunate enough to read them.