Local bars in Barcelona

Spain, Barcelona,
21 Nov. 2010.

I have my coffee at small, little bars where the ground is more often that not littered with sigarette buts, Pañules and assorted humna produced waste, where the local cliêntele gathers in the afternoon, noicy and rowdy Catalan is the norm, people run in and out, where I watch this Catalan world go by while my body recuperates from my endless wanderings, the streets and bars of Barcelona and never ending source of fascination for my Gringo braincells, my insides warming up by Cafe Con Leche A La Manera Española...

My ears are being besieged by the problems and gossip of the local Barri, adjusting fast to Catalan which I never studied but seem to have at least partly mastered during my stints in this Cataluña capital, picking up the latest happenings and problems of people who greet me politely when entering, a moment of curiosity in brown Hispano eyes before ordering Un Cafecito, getting into heavy discussions of daily life with Amigos Y Vecinos, vehemently discussing the marital problems of El Señorito Antonio, Señora Benitez and her pregnant daughter of eight months....

I follow it all trying hard to make sence of a language that sounds familiar and strange at the same time...the strong smell of Sigarillos invading my Gringo nostrils while I make notes in my scrapbooks, quick sketches of people around me so occupied with their daily affairs....

The strong hot taste of Una Copa De Coñac paid for by a friendly local gulving down my throat while showing him the Dibujos in my sketchbook, an amable Hombre Catalan wanting to know all about my life in my native Holland, Amsterdam ¨Es Esa No La Ciudad De Coffeeshops, Señor?, Donde Se Puede Fumar Porros Sin Problems Con Los Mossos, Si?¨...

A bit like being transported back in time to a much younger life though my Spanish was not nearly as good in these days of yonder...the days I toured Europe on forged interrrail cards, kipping in overnight trains to save Dinero on Hostales...