And it’s 1706 greenwich mean time. And I’m lying on a bed whilst sunlight floods through the louvers of the windows, inviting glare as it does so. Wishing the Finlandia and Pom in hand, was a Polish Bullet. Feist playing somewhere in the background, the open-season chords broken by the ring of the telephone on the bedside cabinet. And as I turn to answer it I realise I’m late. And I really can’t be bothered.
I take a Perrier (can) from the mini bar and make my way to Diagonal, where I use a T10 and get the L3 to Catalyna, where I stop at the market. Which is closed. And eventually the metro carriage pulls into Espanya. And by the time I reach Montjuic I can’t actually be bothered, and so I swap the meeting at Arte De Cataluná for the sweet English tea at the Fundació Joan Miró, which of course is worth the extra fifteen minute walk. And it’s the first time in three days that I have a pot, and I’m stealing it into the gallery, where I’m pretending I’m interested in the art, and some woman has used her vagina to recreate a famous painting, and the Mercury fountain, which has been here for what seems years is still pissing its silver liquid into the skyline. And a host spits a string of complex Catalan at me and I have no idea what she is staying.
And it’s around 1930 (gmt), and I’m walking back via Mirador del Palau Nacional, and the cityscape; a jewel in the evening sun, stops me. And I just sit on the steps and think, and stare, and jot some sketches. And I’m taking the slow way over to Van Der Rohe’s, late for a meeting with the CEO of some agency at BCN Montjuic, and my phone rings and I click on loudspeaker, as I pull the Dior sun glasses from my face, and drop them into a Vuitton Utah Leather messenger.
3 comments:
I prefer a Jack Spade Messanger myself. Otherwise, it sounds like a perfect day.
Do you like the European city that I failed to describe?
lol, my very first boyfriend was from there, you know, back before the flood. But I've preferred Seville since discovering Arturo Perez-Reverte.
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