the best city the in the entire world!
In all its mighty vastness this world is, Barcelona claims its place at the very peak; the very best city this world has got to show for itself; GAUDI.PICASSO.DALI. BEACH BUSKERS. MACBA SKATERS. IN-IN TOURISTS. STREET ART/STREET PERFORMERS. THE RAMBLERS; seriously, just ask for it, and you will have it…if you have to go as far as ask for it anyway.
The seedy alleys complete with women(of african descent the ones i saw) grabbing one another in places that should attract attention, men in cheap summer jackets almost ‘accidently’ rumming into you to whisper loudly “Hashish”…
The entire city could just be those alleys; with people and people and people squeezing through, in all of the world’s shades, colors and languages……alleys that grow into streets which grow into private spaces that further grow into more streets that are continually exploding with a mass of people coming in wheeling those little suitcases, walking about talking loudly, naked girls lying round, walking across from you, you can see their brests giggle.
“Barcelona is like: if Paris went ABSOLUTELY NUTS!”, Lottie told me the first night she came in.
Barcelona is the place in where I fell in love….
I was tired everyday, stressed about money everyday, confused about my almost-relationship, still trying to figure out what it is excatly I was doing in an art school which is not even a school to begin with. Barcelona was the living, walking, talking chaos going on inside my head right then, in that extreme summer heat……..my life inside outside.
I have tried to forget Barcelona. I have worked on it…and it worked. The noises on streets fled from head, the stale rusty smells faded away, hesitantly, but they did…All the street names and shops eched in my head somehow vanished, i forgot the laughs, the tears, the days I just wanted to pack up and leave but couldn’t because I really didnt want to pack up and leave…….I forgot all the musuems and the bookshops…..AMAZING BOOKSHOPS, great exhibitions- to which i went everyday.
I forgot about my first encounter with Picasso. The man i had heard so much about, but knew very little…and there I was little phoebe from kakoba mbarara walking about in his town, seating and settling in the places and spaces he used to call home, wandering all over in his ”real” musuem and talking about him and his wives/mistresses like we’d been long time buddies…i forgot about that wtf-am-i-doing-here feeling totaly.
I never got over the fact there wasn’t any grass in barcelona. A true beach city. Not one single patch of grass. This one time, i made a project of this, “Go Find Grass”. I thought, and cleverly too, that searching for a park would be the best chance of finding any; yes there were parks, with a few ‘decorative’ trees, but the ground was concrete. Cement. No grass.
I guess as is obvious, i didnt forget Barcelona.i havent. I can not. I let my mind absorb it, soak in it while flip-teasing in my attempts to forget….I remember every street corner. Every conversation. Every reactions. And with out the romantiscim. I remember the heat, the sweat, tired, hungry, broke days….the shoping, oh the shopping. The Exhbitions…Amazing Exhibitions, the musuems…and the falling in love………
That is (my) last summer.
My first summer
My first real encounter with Europe