<body><script type="text/javascript"> function setAttributeOnload(object, attribute, val) { if(window.addEventListener) { window.addEventListener('load', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }, false); } else { window.attachEvent('onload', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }); } } </script> <div id="navbar-iframe-container"></div> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://apis.google.com/js/platform.js"></script> <script type="text/javascript"> gapi.load("gapi.iframes:gapi.iframes.style.bubble", function() { if (gapi.iframes && gapi.iframes.getContext) { gapi.iframes.getContext().openChild({ url: 'https://www.blogger.com/navbar.g?targetBlogID\x3d11870821\x26blogName\x3dguirilandia\x26publishMode\x3dPUBLISH_MODE_BLOGSPOT\x26navbarType\x3dBLACK\x26layoutType\x3dCLASSIC\x26searchRoot\x3dhttps://guirilandia.blogspot.com/search\x26blogLocale\x3den_US\x26v\x3d2\x26homepageUrl\x3dhttps://guirilandia.blogspot.com/\x26vt\x3d-686008427781938216', where: document.getElementById("navbar-iframe-container"), id: "navbar-iframe" }); } }); </script>

Sunday, July 08, 2007

Woody never did this

Sitting in Café Principal, watching the freak scene of Muntaner boy toys, micro skirts, computer geeks and Japanese guiris circling the block. Two Moritz, two Ambars, the afternoon winds into early evening and it’s hot and humid. Bochorno they call it, that sweltering summer heat, which never is that intolerable in Barcelona despite what some people say. It just makes folk slightly more violent and horny than usual. These five thick-wristed Dutch guys with scuffed work boots and matching black t-shirts sit at the table next to me. They all look the same with short cropped blond hair, chinos cut off right above the knee and military cargo shorts, dirty fingernails, and each with rolling tobacco on the table in front of him. They can’t speak a word of Spanish, and I’m amused at the little key phrases they have memorized. Of course, “Un cerveza, por favor” is one of them, then there’s “Un café americano, por favor”, or even better, “Un café negro, por favor” – which doesn’t go over too well with the Dominican waiter, but he’s used to the gaggle of guiris and freaks which take up temporary residence on the outside terrace. Suddenly, one guy hops by on one foot at incredible velocity; hops down the sidewalk and disappears behind the crowds of tourists out searching for authentic Barcelona and the locals buying 40 inch LCD televisions on credit (so they can spend their vacations at home during the month of August watching HD movies about the exotic lands and hot sex they will not have the chance to see or get). The Dutch guys are laughing so hard about the random hopping fellow that I start laughing too, signaling to them some kind of depraved alcoholic complicity. One of them turns to me and asks, “Perdone, sabes donde esta la casa putas, por favor?” Ah the bochorno! The gaggle of guiris, the city center. Oh how I can tell the summer is on. Those mythical euro-bringing-golden-egg-laying tourists will saturate puticlubs and chiringuitos, they will wander with their backpacks on reverse, maps in hand, I will sit back and enjoy it all – the cycle repeats.