ideas I had culled from an article in the magazine
Blanco y Negro
, a publication I collected back then. There was a gray velvet sofa with two cushions and two throw pillows, with a slanted back for greater comfort; a wooden lamp with a stained-glass shade adorned with a flower pattern and a plain base; and a two-level round table carved out of a single, thick tree. I read for a while and found myself nervously fidgeting, so I decided to go for walk. I put on my hat, slipped a carnation into my jacket lapel (I always had a vase full of them at home), and stepped out the door whistling a Boston waltz.
It was Easter Saturday and one of those rare nights of the year when there were more people out on the street than there had been during the day. After the asceticism and silence of the preceding days of Holy Week, when even carriages and cars were forbidden from circulating, the city had surged back to life. I headed down Paseo del Borne and under the gothic shadows cast by the Santa María del Mar church, continuing along Vía Layetana and into the ancient and somewhat dismal stone alleyways leading to city hall. Many pastry shops and bakeries were still open, and people were buying the last
monas de Pascua
, those delightful chocolate cakes traditionally eaten on Easter Sunday and the following Monday.
Along the way I came across groups of young men wearing white scarves around their necks,
espardeñas
of the same color on their feet, and traditional Catalonian
barretina
caps on their heads. One carried a giant spoon that rested on his shoulder, another bore a massive basket on his, a third toted a grill … Together they made up traditional
caramellas,
bands of young bachelors who on that special eve serenade marriageable young ladies (and those from wealthy families), and are bestowed with Easter gifts, generally foods offered to them. All of this leads up to a picnic the next day at which they use the utensils they carry on their shoulders. Flowers, bells, and festive sashes imbue the group with truly intense local color.
Most of them were headed for Plaza de San Jaime, which was already occupied by the choirs participating in the city-organized contest. A festive air filled the streets. Curious, I paused to observe the groups gathered there. The Catalunya Nova Choir had brought a cart with a forge and bells to accompany Clavé’s piece
La Maquinista
. The Casal de la Familia Choir was made up of more than one hundred singers, brandishing flags symbolizing Catalonia’s four provinces.
It was a warm spring night and I was wandering through the narrow streets packed with whole families, lovesick couples, and all kinds of idle loiterers, letting myself be swept away by the human tide as I gave in to a certain melancholy.
On the corner of Princesa Street and Vía Layetana, on my way back home, I thought I glimpsed Isabel Enrich walking arm-in-arm with a tall man whose face I could not make out. She seemed cheerful, and I was struck seeing her out and about at those hours taking part in what was a folk tradition. As I was conscious of the fact that Isabel had the custom of stepping out, depending on her mood any given day, I did not pursue her, returning home instead. I spent the whole night tossing and turning, sweating and angst-ridden.
* * *
“You’re not going to sleep all morning. Now get up!”
“Five more minutes.”
“It’s been an hour now since you first woke. On your feet!”
It was close to ten o’clock and Lucinda was affectionately but forcefully shaking my shoulder.
“Sunday mornings are not for sleeping but for going to Mass—especially on Easter. Come on, I already made your breakfast. It’s on the table.”
* * *
I ate in the light-filled sitting room, letting my gaze wander to the scrollwork and garland designs gracing the floor. My parents had refurbished the apartment while I was studying in Madrid. When I came back I found it both beautiful and comfortable. They bought dark, sturdy
Blanco y Negro
, a publication I collected back then. There was a gray velvet sofa with two cushions and two throw pillows, with a slanted back for greater comfort; a wooden lamp with a stained-glass shade adorned with a flower pattern and a plain base; and a two-level round table carved out of a single, thick tree. I read for a while and found myself nervously fidgeting, so I decided to go for walk. I put on my hat, slipped a carnation into my jacket lapel (I always had a vase full of them at home), and stepped out the door whistling a Boston waltz.
It was Easter Saturday and one of those rare nights of the year when there were more people out on the street than there had been during the day. After the asceticism and silence of the preceding days of Holy Week, when even carriages and cars were forbidden from circulating, the city had surged back to life. I headed down Paseo del Borne and under the gothic shadows cast by the Santa María del Mar church, continuing along Vía Layetana and into the ancient and somewhat dismal stone alleyways leading to city hall. Many pastry shops and bakeries were still open, and people were buying the last
monas de Pascua
, those delightful chocolate cakes traditionally eaten on Easter Sunday and the following Monday.
Along the way I came across groups of young men wearing white scarves around their necks,
espardeñas
of the same color on their feet, and traditional Catalonian
barretina
caps on their heads. One carried a giant spoon that rested on his shoulder, another bore a massive basket on his, a third toted a grill … Together they made up traditional
caramellas,
bands of young bachelors who on that special eve serenade marriageable young ladies (and those from wealthy families), and are bestowed with Easter gifts, generally foods offered to them. All of this leads up to a picnic the next day at which they use the utensils they carry on their shoulders. Flowers, bells, and festive sashes imbue the group with truly intense local color.
Most of them were headed for Plaza de San Jaime, which was already occupied by the choirs participating in the city-organized contest. A festive air filled the streets. Curious, I paused to observe the groups gathered there. The Catalunya Nova Choir had brought a cart with a forge and bells to accompany Clavé’s piece
La Maquinista
. The Casal de la Familia Choir was made up of more than one hundred singers, brandishing flags symbolizing Catalonia’s four provinces.
It was a warm spring night and I was wandering through the narrow streets packed with whole families, lovesick couples, and all kinds of idle loiterers, letting myself be swept away by the human tide as I gave in to a certain melancholy.
On the corner of Princesa Street and Vía Layetana, on my way back home, I thought I glimpsed Isabel Enrich walking arm-in-arm with a tall man whose face I could not make out. She seemed cheerful, and I was struck seeing her out and about at those hours taking part in what was a folk tradition. As I was conscious of the fact that Isabel had the custom of stepping out, depending on her mood any given day, I did not pursue her, returning home instead. I spent the whole night tossing and turning, sweating and angst-ridden.
* * *
“You’re not going to sleep all morning. Now get up!”
“Five more minutes.”
“It’s been an hour now since you first woke. On your feet!”
It was close to ten o’clock and Lucinda was affectionately but forcefully shaking my shoulder.
“Sunday mornings are not for sleeping but for going to Mass—especially on Easter. Come on, I already made your breakfast. It’s on the table.”
* * *
I ate in the light-filled sitting room, letting my gaze wander to the scrollwork and garland designs gracing the floor. My parents had refurbished the apartment while I was studying in Madrid. When I came back I found it both beautiful and comfortable. They bought dark, sturdy
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