The sights and smells

Each metro car has a different personality. I got in one today, where the floors were clean; three of four people (seated) were reading their own book, or over someone else’s shoulder. One thing about the Barcelona metro that I don't understand is the percentage of people who refuse to ride to the end of the line. The percentage of people significantly diminishes, more than half of the people (70%) get off on the train at the second to the last stop. Perhaps its just an anomaly, or is there a fear of commitment? Almost, just almost... I think I can. Augh! Nope.

Each metro stop has a different air about it. There are some that pass the ticket to the right, while you walk to the left. In others, the dyslexic designers placed the ticket on the right, and like a torero, you are forced to slide the ticket at the precise moment the doors close in front of you. I haven´t yet perfected the art of bullfighting the metro stops. I am working on it, though.

I am continually surprised at the difference in scenery between the different Barrios of Barcelona. Coming from a small country town of 17,000, the differences in ambient are significant. There are stops that lead you to empty plazas, surrounded on four sides by two story businesses. There are stops that afford the best view of the phallic tower Aïguas de Barcelona (yes, ladies! No don't laugh!). There are stops that lead you to the antipodal mix of prostitution and vanguard theatrical performances. And then there is my stop. Mercat Nou. A working part of Barrio Sants where the common odor seems to be of hot oil and stale urine. I am not sure, but I think that they import dogs to pee in the streets here. (Sometimes I hears sporadic bands of dogs barking and running through the 4:00-AM-streets.) Perhaps the grudge I bear my own Mercat Nou is that it doesn’t strut. The station itself is quite clean, but leaving the 20m² of the station either direction is horribly seedy. To the left, you pass under the metro line, attempt to hold your breath while stepping around dirty puddles, and finally are hushed down a walkway by two walls of heavily graffitied tin siding. To the right, past the perennial group of 5 men with long hair seated and standing outside Bar La Vanguardia, is the scuffy back alley. The construction site (of what I am still unsure) leaves muddy footprints and yellow mud potholes that polkadot the street. Three treacherous callejones, and you turn right to go under (again) the dank metro line. Perhaps interesting to note is that each passageway has its own particular smell: while the first is mostly of dusty piss, this second passage (leading to a cute plaza) smells like musty urine and empty cellar. It even sports empty wine bottles—a rustic touch.

I got off on in the wrong metro station today and was late for an interview.

Bulería de la parada equivocada

De me a donde vengo
te digo a donde voy
Que no en Badalona
sino en Boc de Roda estoy.

That’s all for today.

My reflux is acting up.