Number Nine, Number Nine, Number Nine…

Nine years ago I stayed in a hostel in Calle Portaferrissa with a flag flying outside my window, striped red and yellow but not Spanish. My back pack and the few other belongings I could lug with me from London lay in the corner of the room.

The Infanta Cristina was getting married down the street in the Cathedral and I watched the wedding on television in a shop that later became Diesel. I didn’t know what an infanta was but it sounded like somebody very young. Many things in those days sounded like things they weren’t other sounded like the things they were.

Nine years ago the Catalan language was a mystery to me, as were the people. I didn’t venture beyond the Calle Consell de Cent as I was under the impression that nothing happened up there. The Raval was grimy to me. The Barri Gotic was the centre of the world. The place where croissants could be had for breakfast in cafes and newspapers that couldn’t be read could be read with dictionaries. Everything was new and even the old, broken down, run down, and discardable was a joy to behold.

As time wore on visiting friends refreshed the novelty for me, reminding me of the beauty around me. Friends marvelled at the buildings with marble staircases which I trod daily to the fifth floor. They marvelled at the way the windows opened out fully to leave a gaping hole in the wall that you could gaze out of and watch the neighbours watching you.

The roof terrace where I hung out my clothes became once again the adventure it was when I meet Agustí on the roof in ’97. It was hot and he was bare-chested in the shade. I explained my intentions and he asked me to stick around, and I did for three years.

So many passed through Enric Granados, some 20 as I recall. Hmm that was a time of learning, experimenting and building a life back up again.

Aragon hummed at night in the distance and the Plaça Letamendi was the centre of if all. The Superbar on the upper side fed, watered and entertained us. From taxi drivers to policemen, from late night journalists to broad-brush painters, photographers who took your picture to bar men who new your order but didn’t know the prices.

Late night Superbar sandwiches on marble table tops under all night mute television.

Nine years ago.

Spin on time, for there is much to be lived. Spin on time, for there is much to tell.