Ravalution

I'm laying on the twisted comforter of a wood-soft bed, waiting to move from my first apartment in Barcelona. Almost as though the Raval knew I was leaving it brought out its storytelling best. This afternoon, as I turned a corner to Carrer Leo, the street perpendicular to mine, Carrer Cardona, 4 policia were questioning a drunken woman sitting on a potted plant, while five gaunt drunken men looked on debating about whatever event had just taken place, and, in pure Spanish fashion, two neighbors poked their heads from two small windows above a store sign commisserating over their account of what had just happened. It seems that whatever happens in Barcelona, there are always witnesses and they all have and want to share their perspective of life events. Sure enough, if a bottle opener doesn't work, or you've lost your way in a barrio, a committee of 3 or more Catalonians form to extend their opinion, their belief, their account, their method. Generally, this makes whatever you'd like to happen take longer, but everyone does get a chance to be right, to be heard. Such is the artists' way. As I left one scene to turn onto Cardona, I walked into a movie set. A film crew had set up right in front of my apartment building, hushing the passersby, cursing at the garbage trucks ("Este BASURA!"), and clapping after every take. After snapping a few photos of the filming, I went up to pack my things and watch the filming from my balcony. In one scene, a long-haired Spanish actor snapped at his pixie short-haired leading lady on the corner..Once the scene was finished they kissed and hugged as though to reassure one another they were still friends; it was just pretend. The duende, the spirit, the devil, the nervous energy and ceaseless passion of the people here is so palpable, they scare one another. They love and cry and bite their nails and smoke and talk with all their being. It is like being around sophisticated babies. Not a day passes where I don't see couples kissing and someone crying.
I signed up for an open mic at the Inusual Project, an artists' space around the corner from my flat. Clowns, filmmakers, storytellers, and me, jazz-singing and networking. Last night, my new friend, Siejie, came out to show her support, and afterwards we went to a spot with a fat rubenesque statue on the bar, then to a hookah bar, and dancing. I worked it out with a light-footed Sengalese man..then hoofed it home at 3am..I will miss the spying walls of this neighborhood..like a rambling church with rivers of sky witnessing the clapping, the pulsing, the fury factory of Barcelona's artist's core.