Las Ramblas Pt. 2
My first foray to the city’s famous central thoroughfare came to a frustrating halt amid an impenetrable mass of tourists. The second one went something like this:
Spanish, Catalan, French, Danish, German, Japanese (and on and on…); flowers and flower seeds; the curious sell of birds & chipmunks, turtles & gerbils, chicks & roosters, fish & hamsters and other unidentifiable things. Pigeons on the ground aggravating the pigeons in the cage. Living statues with tiny voice buzzers to draw your attention their way; the girl who asked me to take her picture but seemed a bit concerned that I might dash away with her camera; the fairy who tapped me on the head with her wand when I placed money in her tin – a blessing, a thanks, perhaps granting a secret wish; vendors with the quintessential tourist garb – magnets and t-shirts and coffee mugs and why do people buy this sh*t? I digress. Artists, paintings, caricatures, sketches; images of cobbled alleys & cafes, Obama, Johnny Depp.
And the rest – a plaza tucked away among the winding paths, a square that’s a triangle where the locals hang, drink coffee, roll tobacco; the dogs which tumble and play, pretending they don’t hear their owner’s whistles, the sound of their names. The occasional khaki-clad tourists who wander and stumble away. Dreadlocks and piercings, elaborate tattoos, shouts from balcony to balcony; a trio of men, rough-hewn, sharing a meal on the pavement.
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crystaln