After Paris, Barcelona is balmy. A midnight rendez vous with Franco, my freindly Italian host from last year and because i’m early I stroll (as much as one can with luggage) to floods of memories from last year: a laneway Jess Murray and I found wooden boards in; the rambla where we’d busked with them; the attic appartment I yelled up to for Franco to send the key sailing down in a plastic bag; (and the night he didn’t wake leaving me homeless, but that’s another story!); the Harlem Jazz club where the first tap jam was hosted for the week and my body percussion teacher Jep kindly walked me home-i’d forgotten how strong Spain serve their juices; the narrow, dirty but colourful streets and the Picassos; the constant string of late night drunken tourists. After Paris, Barcelona feels so young and lively and vibrant in the colour schemes of the people.
We go out for a drink and it’s cans from Pakistanis on the corners and sit in the square full of locals and tourists alike in the balmy air with the sweet smells of the bakery heating up.
Meet an Australian boy from Hornsby called Ben who is doing a tour of Euorpe via cities starting with B. Laugh and munch a samosa and watch the furescent diablo players/twirlers and then the police on motocycles chase the beer sellers. Stroll sans luggage back to the flat as have first day of classes tomorrow (have missed two days but will do the masterclasees on the weekend as well).
