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 fair Barcelona, where the sun doth shine upon the broken walls and ancient stones, I found myself amidst a world both familiar and strange. It was the year of our Lord 1975, the waning days of General Franco's reign, when I, a mere youth of twenty, didst set foot upon this hallowed ground. The air was heavy with a strange humidity, clinging to my skin like a lover's touch, whilst the rancid smells of the city filled my nostrils and awakened a sense of both awe and trepidation within my bosom.

The cacophony of noise that enveloped the narrow streets was a symphony of steel shutters being raised and lowered, the revving of cars and motorbikes against the weathered stone walls, and the incessant footfalls and voices that echoed through the labyrinthine alleys. As I walked along the Rambla, that venerable avenue lined with verdant trees, I noticed that each building possessed its own unique character, much like the faces that passed me by, their eyes briefly assessing my presence before darting away.

The Rambla itself was a microcosm of the city's soul, a bustling tapestry of life and activity, ever-changing and fluid. Kiosks selling newspapers and books stood unflinchingly, their wares available day and night. Some dispensed colorful bouquets of flowers, while others held caged creatures, their eyes looking out upon the transient throng. And there were the people, sitting at tables outside cafes for hours on end, their gazes fixed upon the passing parade of souls.

Though I possessed no fluency in the Spanish tongue, I could sense that the Rambla adhered to its own code of conduct, its own unwritten rules. For instance, I noticed that the prostitutes, those denizens of the night, did not meander beyond a certain point. It seemed as if there were no destinations, no clear paths to traverse, for most individuals appeared to be idly strolling, their minds adrift with the languid rhythm of the city's pulse. On Sundays, when the sun bathed the Rambla in a golden glow, families would gather, their footsteps mingling with the rustle of leaves as they sought solace beneath the shade of the towering plane trees.

In my quest to acquaint myself with this bewitching city, I frequented its numerous bars, standing tall before the kiosks and attempting to decipher the myriad headlines and book titles that adorned their surfaces. One eventide, near the venerable Cathedral, my feet led me astray through a narrow alley into a clandestine square, nestled in the embrace of darkness and silence. The desolation of this hidden enclave was palpable, its solitude broken only by the gentle trickle of water from a small fountain at its center. As I stood there, a solitary observer amidst the scars of warfare etched upon the desecrated wall, I felt a profound connection to the history that lurked within the shadows.

And so, my dear companions, I embarked upon a journey of exploration through the hallowed streets of this ancient city, its old city a sanctuary for contemplation and introspection. The walls whispered tales of battles waged, the cobblestones bore witness to the footsteps of countless generations, and the spirits of the past swirled around me, their voices beckoning me further into the depths of Barcelona's rich tapestry. With each step, I endeavored to unlock the mysteries that lay concealed within its labyrinthine embrace, for it seemed to me that a city such as this, steeped in history and adorned with the scars of time, held within its very essence the key to unlocking the enigma of the human experience.