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.