Intimate reflections of a weekly commute

I always leave my apartment with optimism; it's the only way I can go up and down six floors of stairs. Still today, it feels somewhat special when I open my building's door and enter the street. Then my eyes cannot rest until I get to my desire place. I see bars, cafes and gelatos, big trash cans, and graffiti. I also see dogs and I wonder how people can live with dogs in this compressed city. And I keep walking, I smell trash, cigarettes, urine, and marihuana. And I pass through pharmacies, and Carrefours, and the Chinese bazaar –my favorite store of this city. And I think about Asians and Arabs and Hispanics immigrants: what they do? How they feel? How happy are they?

And I keep walking and I see pieces of clothes hanging on the balconies and I feel fortunate to have a drying rack. And I think the people in the upper levels of the building who like to smoke, and the ashes who fall over the clothes just washed that are now drying. And I worry about the jeans drying.

And I keep walking and I see a lot of New Balance. And I think, why is it that others also have the same shoes? New balance are among the shoes that I like the most, but it seems the same story for most people in this city, how can I be more special without being dishonest with my tastes?

And then I get into the metro, and I think about coronavirus and pickpockets. I heard that Barcelona is full of expert pickpockets; that I should never wear my wallet in the back pocket; I should never help old ladies pick up whatever falls from their bags; I should never trust in anyone, that I should never… because, even so, expert pickpockets will steal my expensive underpants without me having the slightest idea that I will have one less layer of protection in this jungle that is the city.

And get out of the metro, and I go to Elisava.

I finish my class. I get back to the Rambla, and then to the metro, and do the same trip all over again.