A morning chat

We stand at the corridor, looking at the narrow street below, with cups of warm coffee in our hands. My bags lie largely ignored at the reception counter.

“The reflection of the sunrise on the van is beautiful. The colors.” I comment, knowing that you’re a dreamer as well, and that you will not think this statement odd.

You nod, and tell me about the place located in South Spain that you and Alicia are moving to next year. It has a small population of about 130, 000 people, with a river cutting through the land. You like rivers, you quip. They give a place character. And you take a sip of your coffee.

Things are simpler and quieter over there, you explain. I understand that desire.

I reply I like late nights. They seem calm and peaceful. The night is ideal for reading, writing or painting. The day is too busy.

You prefer dusks, when the city is just about to wake up with a big yawn and a long stretch. Like now. And while everyone sets off for work still half-asleep, you end work and go home with a big smile on your face.

We go on like this for a while, talking and joking randomly about bad books and good books, the rising cost of living in Barcelona, the worsening economy, how you have to change in order not to change, how you have to move in order to stay at the same spot, loved ones, our collaboration for your upcoming magazine, boring office work which we both avoid, freedom, time, and the big word happiness.

“Maybe we are happiest when we were children.” You say.

I wish I don’t agree.

We head back to the reception counter.

“Maybe we should just do whatever we want.” I steal your line, throwing it back at you. Just be.

You laugh and help me with my luggage, “Yeah.”

The cab soon arrives. We kiss each other on the cheeks goodbye. I board the cab, feeling a lump in my throat that refuses to go away for a long time. I always fare badly at farewells.

Travel guides are packed with information on where to go, where to stay, what to eat and what to do. What they forget, is that it is never tourist sites, but always people, that steal away pieces of you.

Remember to send me your second novel when it’s translated into English. All the best to you, Alicia, Laura and all the others I’ve met on this trip.

Ciao ciao.

angel in barcelona

*dreams of pimentos, clara (beer plus lemonade) and cava*

people

I am thinking of…

the two cute Spanish guys I bought ice cream from.
the teenager at the metro who passed me by and, for no apparent reason, whispered in my ear, “Go to hell.”
the theives who took my keys, opened my locker and stole my belongings while I was asleep.
the police officer who explained his calendar to me, and who smiled when I said the stuff I’ve lost is worth more than my bank account.
my professor’s niece Veronica who helped me out after the theft, treated me to delicious Spanish food and told me her story.
her husband who narrated his family history very impressively over dinner and put forth the thesis that the economy will crash in 2011.
her two Malaysian friends Shih Yang and Ben, who took me to Terragona, a Roman city outside Barcelona.
the old man in the wheelchair masturbating publicly on the street, oblivious to everything.
the gorgeous Brazilian lady who got her stuff stolen as well and had to travel to Madrid to make another passport.
the good-looking writer part-timing at the hostel Miguel, who saw my work and asked if I would like to contribute to his upcoming magazine.
the pretty Alicia, who also works at the hostel, and who always exudes a bohemian air around her.
the American guy who tried my method of eating ice-cream and I think, nearly choked.
the NZ girl who I explored Park Guell with.
the owner of the clothing store who winked.
the elderly woman wearing bright red lipstick at the Plaza Reial.
the Red Cross guy who I met outside a hospital but who could speak only Spanish.
the suspicious guy with dread locks who tried to offer me incense.
the Pakistani in front of the contemporary art museum who said ¨Ni Hao!” endlessly.
the cheats near the metro station.the train conductor who went “Konichiwa?” when he saw me, spoke to e Spanish passengers besides me and then did a jiggly, butt-shaking dance that lasted for about three seconds.
the guy who has ran around the hostel in only his red underwear twice already.
my Londoner friend Frank who I am supposed to meet at Ibiza but can’t.
the naked man walking on the street calmly, with an outline of an underwear tattooed on his ass.
the illegal hawkers who harass tourists to buy their bags and shades, and who run away when the police harass them.
Laura, the owner of the hostel who I can talk for hours with, who loves my hand lotion, and who has put me up at her place tonight.

Barcelona is turning out to be rather unpredictable.

all boxed up

I guess to be able to think out of the box, you've to be able to see the box first.

I'm trying to see the box i've grown up in.

red: color of love

The red button meets the red fingernail. "You look familiar," they both say.

"Will you stay?" The red button, sewn to the cloth, and hence, unable to move, asks.

"I cant," the fingernail says.

lovely shakes

The gorgeous people who willingly shake their heads at me, and for me. ;) Thank you.

ah ma

Taking photos of my relatives today was fun.

I think she's beautiful.