Islands in a sea of ordinariness

The Passeig de Sant Joan runs like a vein through the city. It is the shortest way to the sea from where I live. It is a big busy street but the middle of the street, the center, is reserved for walkers. When you turn around, when you look towards Grácia, you see the hills on the edge of the city. Somewhere towards the other end there are some old olive trees in the middle of the pavement.

Barcelona is a good city for walkers. Maybe that is why I feel at home here. That and the sea and the mountains being near.

The other day I sat at the shoreline while the sun was setting and I was surprised it didn’t sink in the sea, where it is supposed to disappear from my point of view. Wherever I am, there will always be a Dutch girl somewhere inside of me, born in a country partially below sea level, a country where uncountable times I saw the sun being swallowed by the waves.

Hidden in corners are old matresses and blankets, stuffed inbetween pieces of cartboard. Public bedrooms, neatly ordered after having been used during the night. It isn’t as cold as it was in the last weeks but it must still be uncomfortable to sleep outside in these conditions. 

 Men roam the streets with shopping carts, picking up items other people threw away. Cloth items are hanging from garbage containers so they can be collected and reused.

I pass Parking Manhattan in the middle of shabby housing blocks. Behind them the four majestic towers rise into the air. The front towers of the unfinished Sagrada Familia. I hope it will stay unfinished forever. As a tribute to imperfection.

In the middle of a large piece of wasteland next to the bare wall of a building block a small garden has emerged. Neat rows of conifers and stones. It looks like a protest of plants. The bright pink flowers of the plant I can’t remember the name of have the exact same colour as the grafitti on the wall. (Later on, back home, I try to think of a way to find the plant species online. I remember seeing tiny versions of it growing in the wild in the woods in austria, I remember being surprised to see them there, never having seen them in the wild. I google “pink wild plant woods austria” and when I don’t find it I add “small” and replace “pink” with “purple”. A picture of the cyclamen appears, the plant with the heart-shaped flowers, it is placed on a site about Ancient Symbolism and I read : “The Cyclamen is a plant of the Primrose family. The name derives from Greek kyklaminos ; Latin name Cyclamen purpurascens ; English name Sow-bread. The naming of this plant deriving from Greek  kvyklos, circle, ring + minos, from 'Minos' a mythological King of Crete. In Greek mythology Minos was the son of Europa and Zeus who at his death was consigned to judge human souls. “)

I walk a half circle and pass the Nativity Facade of the Sagrada Familia. A police car is parked in front of it. Two police men sit inside their car, eating their lunch. The door to the back seat is open. On the seat lies what looks like confiscated items. A big pile of small cheerfull helium foil balloons, the ones I often see street vendors carry around. I am puzzled.

It starts to rain softly. Old women quickly pull out their umbrellas. A lovely smell fills the air. Spring rain in a dry city. I wonder if I smell the rain, if I smell nature or if it aren’t the raindrops I am smelling, if it is the street, the houses, the stones giving of their scent. In the sixties a pair of Australian scientist began the study of rain’s aroma and they coined the beautiful term “petrichor”, after petra (Greek: stone) and ichor (the blood of gods in ancient myths). I have to reread what they wrote.

Back in the gallery I make coffee. I spill some of it while pouring. I drink it standing in my small courtyard. My courtyard. It makes me realise again I feel at home here. And also that nothing is really mine. Not even the things I officially own.

There are two small leaves lying on the floor. I pick them up and smell them but they don’t smell of anything. The lines on the floor make a small map.

A map of what? I wonder and decide to copy it and see what happens when I walk the route in the city.

The coffee stain draws my attention. I’ve always had a soft spot for stains. Tiny worlds. Islands in a sea of ordinariness, messing things up. Traces of past events, happy reminders.