“Let's go pigeon kicking” intones Lloyd, the drunken Scotsman. Now, I'm no animal rights activist but even I can sense something morally dubious about all of this. I like to think of myself as a nice caring sort of guy most of the time. However, it's 6am in the morning and we're all hammered and I've no wish to tread on everyone's feel good vibes, so I laugh uproariously. Moral cowardice I know, but it's the Mid-90's and just about the worst thing anybody could be at the moment is a politically correct killjoy. We'll leave that to the previous generation who went on demos and ranted about Thatcher while reading the Socialist Worker. As for us, we're going to be cynical and ironic, read Loaded magazine and kick pigeons.
Abandoning our plan to catch the Metro, we ascend the escalators into the blinding sunshine and early Sunday morning bustle of Las Ramblas. Here we join the usual motley collection of drunks, newspaper vendors, grim looking prostitutes and relentless nocturnal street cleaners. People shout in a mixture of Spanish and Catalan, and there's the ever-present stench of drains masked by industrial strength cleaning products and tobacco. The first time you walk down Las Ramblas you think it's never going to end and it's hard to decide if you like it or think it's the most disgusting tacky place you've ever seen; your senses assaulted by the noises and sights of birds in cages, fortune tellers advising worried-looking clients about unimaginable problems, incompetent mime artists doing their 'standing very still' act whilst painted silver or gold; sleazy, opportunistic criminals preying on the hordes of tourists and locals, all looked down upon disapprovingly by the imposing late 19th Century buildings, many of which still bear the bullet holes and sadness of the Spanish Civil War.
Into this heady mixture come Lloyd the drunken Scotsman, Ian his even more ostentatiously hammered mate from Wales, and me. We've all been here a few months and barely give the Ramblas a second glance as we take a sharp turn out of Catalunya Metro station, across the street past Cafe zurich and into Placa Catalunya, the venue for our intended avian antics. I needn't have feared too much for the birds' safety, as none of us are in good enough shape to manage basic acts of corporeal co-ordination such as running and kicking, and the pigeons are easily evading our clumsy, telegraphed attempts at booting them one. I probably should have mentioned that Lloyd is a part-time Elvis impersonator, and is sartorially permanently set at '68 comeback special, with the leather jacket and the quiff. So, I'm faced with the rather disorientating sight of a chubby, pastey faced Elvis wearing a leather jacket in the Spanish sunshine, trying forlornly to kick pigeons. It could be worse, I could be back in Birkenhead contemplating unemployment or , worse still, some numbing, soul destroying form of employment with a future and a pension. Bollocks to that, I'd rather be here laughing so hard I can't breath and revelling in the sheer naughtiness of the fact that I'm a 27 year old behaving like a 12 year old. Conceeding victory to the pigeons, we retire for Cafe con leche y un croissant in the nearest bar that's open and willing to serve inebriated and failed pigeon kickers.
Suitably refreshed and fortified by the food, I leave Lloyd and Ian in the cafe and stumble into the daylight to look for a taxi. There are hordes of them hovering around at the top of the Ramblas; smart looking little yellow ones that look just like New York taxis and cost about a third of the price of a taxi back in Britain. As in most big cities they're mostly driven by immigrants, and also here by incomers from the traditionally poorer parts of Spain like Andalusia. Even taking a taxi in Barcelona somehow has the effect of making you feel like a bigshot, or like you're starring in your own personal movie; my Spanish isn't good enough to make conversation with the driver so you just end up taking in the scenery, which in my tired and emotional state just about takes my breath away. All I can manage is a garbled:
“Hasta Placa Lesseps”
and then suddenly we're sweeping through Placa Catalunya into the tree-lined, expansive grandiosity of Passeig de Gracia, flying past the disorientating, Gaudi-designed building that looks as though it's under water. It's still early and the taxi driver is really getting up a speed, displaying an utter contempt for such considerations as red lights and other vehicles; occasionally muttering the odd 'joder' at other road users or just to himself. In Britain you'd probably feel embarrassed by this situation, feel the need to negotiate the social minefield of the taxi ride, but here the lack of conversation just reinforces that it's a simple transaction: you pay, someone drives. You're not worrying if you're coming across as an arrogant middle class arsehole, muddying your university educated tones and trying to be matey: you pay, they drive. It's liberating. The Spanish aren't even too bothered about 'gracias' and 'por favor'; these words don't carry the same force here. Requests in paying situations are direct, without what they see as the unnecessary embellishment of please and thank you. In no time at all I'm at my destination and handing over the equivalent of about £2.50 in pesetas. 'Gracias' I venture, unable to abandon my British politeness reflex altogether. The driver eyes me suspiciously, like I'm asking to marry his precious daughter and he's not impressed by what he sees. 'De nada' he manages grudgingly and skids off to earn another 300 pesetas somewhere else. This is indeed the life.
Mike Furber.
Mike Furber.
