Book Shopping in Barcelona

  It all started over ten years ago in a tiny charity shop in East London. At the time I had no idea it was going to lead me to the streets of Barcelona, to once again find my love for reading. 

 Back then I had been on a long reading hiatus that eventually extended to almost a year. I started multiple books but never finished them. I found even the smallest of distractions to be an enormous obstacle. Until I forgot that one day I used to be an avid reader. My distracted self fully disconnected with the part of me that once enjoyed books. But then came the charity shop with a discount basket. And inside, a thin book with faded pages and ugly cover, titled 'Tattoo'. The blurb at the back promised an engaging detective story. Looking back, I still don't know what was it that made me buy it. Maybe it simply was that I was holding it for too long not to resist an enticing price: 0.50pp. Nevertheless, I took it home with me and the rest is history. 

 Inside the ugly cover there was a world of wonders. A type of world filled with smell of endulging food, atmospheric street lights, magic playing in the shadows. The central character of the story solved mysteries by talking to strangers, walking around crowded bars, and fist and foremost, cooking. If there is anything better in life than a long cooking session in a cozy home filled with books, please correct me. By the time I finished the book, my life was changed forever. It was not a life of someone who loved books.

 The author was called Manuel Vazquez Montalban and soon my free days were filled with trips to second hand bookshops in search for other titles in his detective series. I scanned the Internet for books in both English and Spanish, as soon reading in translation felt not enough. I hunted a few more installments, and then, abruptly, it all came to a halt. 

 A large bookstore told me they can order it. But it would take three months at least. 

 And then I lost my copy of 'Tattoo' during a move. 

 The idea that I could buy the books while in Barcelona was at first a pleasant idea that soon elated me so much it became the overarching theme of my visit there. I no longer wanted to make plans. I remained vague regarding museums, exhibitions, bars and concerts. Instead, I had a map with pins, each standing for a bookshop that could potentially hold a treasure. 

 I said I was going to find my own way. Not like I was going to end up at Urquinaona station five times within an hour.  I was on tight schedule. Many shops are closed on Sunday, which left me with a window of four hours on a Saturday to find my books. I thought it was going to be difficult to explain that to people, but to my surprise, everyone I spoke to understood. 

 Casa del Llibre

 The biggest book seller in the city, Casa del Llibre was my best bet, which made Passeig de Gracia the first destination to reach. I marked destinations in the city center with only a slight worry of overlooking bookshops located further out, which in this timeframe normally would have to be checked first. But I had big expectations towards Casa del Llibre, and picking it first allowed for some Gaudi-spotting on the way. Moving through a crowd of tourists outside Casa Batllo, I started craving a coffee break, which could possibly eat up twenty minutes or so out of the tight schedule, unless I downed an espresso like an Italian. But the need for caffeine was interrupted by the aparition of the bookshop's door opposite the road, pulling me in and making me forget the coffee forever. 

 The first one was a disappointed. As much as I loved the large selection of books in Catalan, I can't read Catalan and I won't pretend I can. I scanned the bookshelves and noticed many foreign books in translation, many of them hyped, recent titles. The atmosphere was heavenly as it usually is inside large, popular bookshops designed to spend hours in them. I moved through general fiction section towards the one marked 'Literatura Policiaca', standing for mysteries, which boasted a few copies of Georges Simenon in Spanish translation. But I only found one book from the series I was after and, alas, the one I already own. 

 I think my heart sunk a bit at that point. Until then, deep down I sort of assumed it was going to be easier. That was the first moment when I realized in horror that I could run through this whole city and potentially end up empty. 

 Libreria Finestres 

 I didn't expect to find what I was looking for at the Finestres but it was part of shop seightseeing I had planned and, conveniently, it was on the way. It offered a quiet, much needed breathing space in the bustling city. The silence was filled with an enquiry of a student who searched for books for a dissertation and their polite, continued in low voice conversation with staff. The bookshop was a charming space with large, stained glass windows, vintage lamps and sofas in brown leather. A type of space it would be great to live in, and never ever leave, until the end of the world and beyond. The space seemed to good for detective stories, but boasted an impressive collection of books on art and politics. In ideal world, I coud cance my ticket back and live my life behind one of these bookshelves, but on that day it wasn't meant to be. 

 Casa del Llibre, second location

 It turned out two branches of Casa del Llibre are so close to each other, that I asked my friend whether they're not in fact the same bookshops with different entrances. He reassured me that is not the case. 

 The second shop was located on Rambla de Catalunya and was the twin of the one on Passeig de Gracia. But this time, I had a slightly better luck and in fiction department of them all. It was only one copy of 'I Killed Kennedy', the first book in which detective Pepe Carvalho appears. It was also an expensive copy, hard cover, published specifically for '50 years of Pepe Carvalho'. Despite the steep price, I wasn't going to put it down. I bought 'Le Dedico Mi Silencio' by Mario Vargas Llosa as an afterthought and with a sigh, settled for less. 

 Two coffee breaks later my mind was getting hijacked by dreadful thoughts. My friend could order them and post them. He could buy online and post them. Bring them to London. My friend in Madrid could check. My family in Mallorca could too. But what if, just what if all these attempts somehow failed? I breathed in the fresh air of Catalan spring and clutched my only Pepe Carvalho a bit tighter. What if we were never going to meet again. 

 La Central del Raval 

 Now I don't know anybody who would have El Raval down as their favourite place, but it certainly has its charm. I have somewhat of a sentiment for it since my time of reading Zafon back in my early youth as an unseasoned reader, and I will probably continue to assign magical qualities to places I had encountered through that time in my life. La Central is also located near a square that I hold very dear to my heart. I have no arguments why is it a special place on Earth other than it's one of these places I always magically find my way to, and I get lost again, and often on purpose. It was there where on a shelf, tucked away at the back of the room, I saw familiar, black-lettered yellow spines awaiting me. I emptied the shelf and soon I felt them heavy in my bag as I watched the sky turning into dusk on my beloved square. The street lights went on and it was time to eat. 

 London

 Held between the station, on an London underground train I opened the book and, once again, immersed myself in the world of 'Tattoo'. The train whistles gently and moves ahead slowly as Pepe Carvalho takes his table in the corner. He will now eat and make enquiries, and then eat more. The air fills with the smell of oil. 

Before the flight

  Illuminated by the street lights, perched on his bar stool, Konstantin Konstantinos the Third looked out of an open window. He was pensive. Nearby, Night Owl wiped empty tables, looking in his direction with anticipation. He had just asked him a question and he awaited an answer.

'Name three greatest military commanders of all times', the question went, and now Konstantin Konstantinos the Third absentmindedly studied graffitis opposite the road, buried in his thoughts. 

'Napoleon will be one', volunteered Night Owl encouragingly. 

'Oh yes, said Konstantin Konstantinos the Third, 'and Alexander the Great just after that.'

Night Owl stopped in his tracks. 

'I thought you were going to name Hannibal' he raised his evebrows. 

'Hannibal was mostly about potential', said Kontantin Konstantinos the Third and took a sip of his beer. Soon, the window would need to be shut. It was getting late and we were the only people in the pub. It was also getting cold. I could feel my ears aching from the wind. 

 Luciano had only just arrived. But soon we were going to have to leave, as Night Owl said, the rules are very strict like that- his own wife had to wait for him outside. But Luciano remained enthusiastic as the next morning they were planning a trip to Lanzarote. There was going to be four of them, one of them absent but badmouthed by the other three. The fourth one, Ivan, had become a Lindsay Lohan of the four, after he had dared to book a separate train ticket to the airport. That was also one of the reasons why he wasn't joining, but it didn't surprise me. I had never met anybody called Ivan before, so it was only fitting I wasn't going to meet them that night. 

 Konstantin Konstantinos the Third was a bit disappointed about the window. He got accustomed to changing weather and cold winds. But Night Owl assured him it was indeed too cold. He was going to close the window long before we arrived. 

 But we had the last toast to drink, the one to celebrate Konstantin Konstantinos the Third receiving a research grant. 

'Hire me as your assistant', said Luciano who's, conveniently, his colleague. 

'Seventy percent of that is supposed to go towards assistant's salary', muttered Konstantin Konstantinos the Third grimly.

'I'd make a splendid salaried assistant', Luciano gulped his beer. 

'You'd have to call people'. 

'Okay, better no then.'

 After that, we were heading to a gyros place. Gyros that Konstantin Konstantinos the Third was frustrated that we couldn't pronounce. It's a very particular type of 'h'. Not everybody is familiar with this one. It's a throatal, quiet sound, that makes you want to drink tea in the sun and forget the world. A sound like no other. 

 Night Owl had started to lock up. The basement space where we celebrated a birthday not so long ago was now empty and deserted, our traces erased. The buffed tables shone with gloss. The board listed special offers for the day, beetrot, yorky and crushed swede. The new moon had already shone. Outside, the street went quiet. 

 And maybe I should tell this to Mr Frank, or a real therapist, or my dad when he calls tomorrow, that pubs on Monday evening are liminal spaces. You come from somewhere and you will walk away, to the airport, to the comfort of your bed, or into the unknown of the night. Meanwhile, Night Owl turned off the lights, and the city went to sleep. 

Mr Frank, elle panique! and the anguish of creating bucket lists

  It was a strange feeling to sit in front Mr Frank again. I had abandoned him so long ago I nearly had a problem to find my way through deceiving alleyways of my memory. And yet then he was, untouched by time, with his nailfile in his hand. Frozen in time, or rather, in this instance, frozen in my mind. 

 I could no longer recall the exact moment when my thoughts drifted away from Mr Frank. People say that the reason why it's so easy to do is that we don't appreciate those who are always available. And Mr Frank, living in my head, has been the most accessible person of them all. Still, knocking on his door after such a long time, I didn't expect his main complaint to be having been replaced by a real therapist. For years Mr Frank had provided the only therapy he believed I needed: just as all imaginary therapists, he simply always told me what I wanted to hear. Hence he liked to describe himself as an 'affirmative voice' that we all desperately need in our life. I never contemplated whether I needed Mr Frank anymore than any other parts of my psyche. The role of imaginary creatures, as I imagined, was to just be there, in the same way you furnish your flat with items that are known to be too bulky to easily remove. And yet, it was in a middle of my grief therapy when my thoughts carried me back to Mr Frank's office. Maybe the old, antipathetic figment of my imagination still held some sentimental value. Or maybe because I had finally appreciated the one-of-a-kind offering of an imaginary therapist: in the world that becomes more brutal by day, sugarcoating appears as almost a revolutionary act. 

 Whatever my reason was, soon I found myself in front of Mr Frank, and it quickly felt like coming home. He was drawn as usually, with a sharp, dark line of a soft pencil. He leant casually back in his armchair, operating his nailfile with utmost precision. Pencil drawings don't age. Not even the sharp ones. He didn't even look up when he uttered 'so what brings you back', not without a certain indignation. I explained it to him that holding onto an imaginary therapist, while undergoing real therapy for a very real grief, wouldn't be a good idea at least from mental health standpoint. He shrugged, as he usually does when he disagrees, and he disagrees only if he knows I will agree with him afterwards. 

'You are not qualified to offer grief therapy,' said I, 'you need diplomas for that, experience, online reviews.'

 The last example was bad and I knew it. Imaginary creatures live only inside a mind that created them, and naturally no one else could ever write a review for them. Still, Frank seemed unmoved. 

'What do they make you do, these real therapists in the real world?', he asked the nailfile. 

'A lot of exercies have to take life step by step and feel better.'

'What about a bucket list?, Mr Frank shot back, and I paused for a moment. 

'That's what people do while they're in crisis', he began to explain, and I felt I had missed his patient voice. 'They create a bucket list to have something to look forward to, and to treat different achievements as pit stops to fuller life.'

I wasn't sure how to explain that I had, in fact, failed profoundly on creating a bucket list, multiple times. Every time I jotted down a few things, immediately other emerged, that were just like the previous ones until I could no longer distinguish one goal from another. And then I concluded I really want to to everything, while simultaneously do nothing at all. But I guess that's everybody, at least to some extend. 

'There must be something you really want to do. Something you feel like you have to do', nudged me Mr Frank. 

'I have to go to IKEA', I muttered. It was true on two counts. I needed a lampshade and, speaking of bucket lists, that was where my only clearly articulated bucket list item lived. 

'I never had IKEA meatballs', I finally said, and Mr Frank jumped in his armchair out of joy. 

'You see, how easy it is! Bucket list item one, and now you have a true goal to keep moving forward towards.'

 What he was saying actually made a lot of sense. But what if, just what if, it remains my only bucket list item? And when you fulfill your only one goal, who will you become? How changed of a creature would I become if I finally ate IKEA meatballs?

 Just as back in the days, visiting Mr Frank left me with more questions than answers. And just as back then, I left knowing I would see him again.