vale,vale
The crosswalks in Barcelona will kill ya if you aren’t careful.
They blink more.
Have you noticed?
In the States there’s more time to cross the road.
Which is funny, kinda.
Ya know.
Considerin’ how much hurry.
But in Spain—
you hurry when you’re supposed to.
Like when you’re in the fuckin’ roadway.
There’s slow for other moments—
Like the tabla on the patio where you have a spritz with people ya love.
Why do we hurry so much?
I wondered that this week.
I’m always in such a rush.
Movin’ to and fro.
Sometimes I just need to stop and watch the vines wave in the wind over the rod iron balcony rails.
They blink three times,
the crosswalk lights here.
Not once,
not twice,
exactly three times.
And if you aren’t payin’ attention a Vespa will blow their horn’s ass off at ya.
And you’ll jump and skedaddle outta the damn way.
I didn’t fall in love in Spain.
People do that here,
so I’m told.
Here is where I realized somethin’.
Here is where I realized I could walk
alone
through the world,
in a world
where a million lives are livin’.
Barcelona club jerseys whizzin’ by on the L3.
Another whole language that I don’t know.
Another whole world across the pond.
But here they are.
Just livin’.
Just dyin’.
Just lovin’.
Just, sippin’ vermouth.
I take comfort in the knowledge that I can move through the alleys and byways of a world,
that speaks a language that I don’t know.
That’s been here long before I ever walked my way across this plane,
and yet the warm amber eyes of the server,
with white hair and glasses,
can grin at me
and say,
“Señor, más vino blanco?”
And I can smile back and reply,
“Sí, amigo.”
And we’re the same in this space.
In this bar.
Even though we’re not,
we are.
We’re the golden fizz in the Estrella beer.
And the squish in the leather seat my ass has ‘lighted on for too long.
We’re the “Felize Happy Birthday.”
We’re the same.
Even though we’re not.
We smile at the taste of the green pepper brine on the toothpick.
“vale”
And maybe it is.
Maybe sometimes the train roars by with the club jerseys,
and the cava fizzes,
and the planes fly and take off at BCN,
and at home Momma checks where I am,
and two men kiss,
and people turn 50 in this beautiful part of the world,
(happy birthday, M),
and the world still cranks on like the L3.
And “vale, vale.”
And that’s all.