| Xampanyería:
A Memoir of Spain |
|
Nothing
easier than getting lost in the ruins of another time.
|
| The
cobbles, the asphalt, the air were rich with sea salt. The
mountains on the northwestern edge of Barcelona invited morning
fogs to hang over the whole city, sinking only reluctantly
back to the shoreline. These fogs lifted the sediment of history,
daily, into the air, a ritual cleaning. A salty timeless savor
would, daily, override the sooty-city residue of industry.
For those intimate, empty hours, life itself opened up, became
vulnerable, reliant upon our will. We tended to attempt to
dwell among the salts. |
| No
matter what my intended destination (many days I would have
an insurmountable urge to pass by the Museo Picasso; other
days, it was more important to find myself at the port’s
edge, watching the world in flux), all streets, every exiting
of an art gallery, every callejón or escondrijo,
every late café luncheon, would lead me back to the
xampanyería. We would sometimes joke that all of the
Barri Gótic was a series of compartments of the spirit,
all fascinating but exhausting, all begging the loud, unclean
serenity of the crowded cava bar. |
| At
four p.m., possibly, definitely within the hour, one could
locate Michael or Saint Jerome or Renault, Farola or the Dutchman.
Nevertheless, it was always the outside, the persistence of
the old places, that would drive us there. It was always an
integral part of a more organismal experience, never solely,
or statically, ‘a separate peace’. [Full
Text] |
|
©
2000 Joseph Robertson
|
|
|
| Oxígeno
y ciprés: junio en España |
|
ENTRANDO...
|
| Camino
por el pasillo abierto que lleva hasta la puerta. Me recuerdo.
Recuerdo sin fallos el lugar y el sentido del lugar. Ver el
mismo cactus, el encanto de las plantas que llueven sobre
los muros, ver la casa, el umbral, la cara y bondad insondable
de Gloria, que siempre me cuidaba tan bien, significa una
colaboración improbable con el fluír temporal.
|
| Cenamos
y hablamos de literatura, de leyenda y de la verdad. Hablamos
de ese espacio infinito que corre por entre los nudos y planicies
de la biografía a medias. |
|
Me
encuentro entre planes, entre mundos, entre variados trayectos
de un progreso incierto que se llama vida. El aire tenue
y privado está repleto de fantasmas e ideales, preferencias,
gustos, y todo lo demás que pueda trascender los
cambios cotidianos de la vida... [Texto
completo]
|
|
©
2001 Joseph Robertson
|
|
|
