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

In the heart of Barcelona, a city rich with history and awash with the tempestuous tides of change, I found myself entwined within its captivating embrace. The year was 1975, a pivotal time, for the iron grasp of General Franco had yet to release its grip upon the land. A young and eager soul, I had set foot upon these foreign shores, seeking solace and adventure in equal measure.

Barcelona greeted me with a sensual embrace, her warm breath caressing my skin as I walked along the bustling streets. The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of industry, intertwined with the fragrant allure of blooming flowers that spilled forth from kiosks like an offering to the gods. The discordant symphony of machines and voices filled the air, a reminder of the ceaseless movement that coursed through the veins of this enigmatic city.

The Rambla, that grand promenade, lay before me like a river of life, teeming with souls from all walks of existence. Each building that lined its path held secrets untold, their weathered facades concealing the tales of countless lives lived and lost within their walls. The rhythm of the city pulsed through my veins as I walked its length, keeping time with the ebb and flow of this vibrant tapestry.

With each step, I marveled at the diversity that unfolded before me. Faces, both familiar and foreign, would pass in a moment's glance, their eyes an intricate web of stories waiting to be unraveled. The kiosks, standing as sentinels guarding the knowledge of the world, beckoned me with their siren call. Newspapers and books whispered promises of knowledge yet to be discovered, their enchanting titles teasing my curiosity.

Yet it was not only the tangible offerings of the Rambla that captured my attention; it was the intangible customs and rituals that permeated this sacred space. The prostitutes, like mythical creatures, held court in specific territories, their boundaries clearly defined. And the people, oh how they strolled with purposeful aimlessness, drifting along the promenade as if caught in a waking dream. Families, on Sunday mornings, created a tableau of love and connection, their laughter mingling with the gentle rustle of the plane trees above.

And in the depths of the night, as the moon cast its ethereal glow upon the city, I found myself drawn to the hidden corners of Barcelona. Through narrow alleyways I wandered, guided by an invisible hand, until I stumbled upon a secluded square, cloaked in darkness and mystery. Here, the scars of a turbulent past marred the walls, bearing witness to the struggles that had besieged this hallowed ground. In the silence that enveloped me, punctuated only by the soft melody of a trickling fountain, I felt the weight of history settle upon my shoulders, reminding me of the enduring spirit that thrived within these ancient cobbles.

With each passing day, my affinity for this city deepened, my love for its soul growing stronger. Barcelona became my muse, my midnight confidante, inspiring me to embrace the unknown and to surrender myself to the enchantment of life. As I explored the labyrinthine streets, I found myself not simply meandering but rather becoming a part of the city itself, woven into the very fabric of its existence.

In homage to Barcelona, I ventured into the depths of my own soul, uncovering hidden passions and cherished dreams. And as I roamed the old city, immersed in its timeless beauty and wisdom, I came to understand that this journey was not merely a physical one but a spiritual awakening, a testament to the transcendent power of this remarkable place. Barcelona, forever etched upon my heart, shall remain an enduring testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the boundless possibilities that lie within us all.