SPAIN: BEYOND THE BEGINNING
Barcelona was paradise, ancient, engulfed in gaudy, lavish decadence slow to modernize, a wasteland hungry for vibrancy but a thirty desert thriving on a reputation of yester-year. Her sister, Paris exuded outer-worldly hedonism, satirical intellectualism, romantic zest, and a libido rivaling no other. Barcelona’s balmy weather, its overt nudity, its Venetian canal aromas, strummed homophonic chords of harmony to a convoluted regiment of organized disorder. I had forgotten all about the garbage and fish smells. Because tonight, my last night in Barcelona, life was to be lived, so David and I bar-hopped deep into crepuscular hours. Whatever Barcelona was to teach me, I was not remised to impart my undivided attention.
During my short prolonged stay, I managed to acquire a keen awareness to circumnavigate the city. The Metro was as efficient as Paris’s. The difference was, the people moved with a lazy tropical cadence, imprinting an impression of a cultural lackadaisicalness. I learned the Metro, as this was a good thing, and not something to take for granted, as the heat could cause an uncomfortable dance with the devil.
The cultural exchange bored me like a game of bridge. The closest I got to any resemblance of anything African was from the artwork hung on the walls in the Picasso Museum. Of course, I wasn’t allowed to take photos. I do recall snapping shouts of the outer-realm of its structure. The more I reflect my trips stay, I felt stoic like Albert Camus’s The Stranger. If alienation and absurdity were two-thirds of an existentialist’s equation, I was fading fast. What an ironic parody of mundane pleasure. Shopping the strip of the famed Las Ramblas was no Champs Elysees, the noticeable difference was the high-end establishments were on the gobble-stoned side streets, but the entertainment was less appealing as I watched street performers hustle a multitude of gawked eyed tourists. If there was grace that saved, then La Ribera, idling into the Gracia district, mingled me with students worldwide in Plaza del Sol, and forced innumerable hours detaching and attaching myself at Plaza de España, in an awe-struck gaze from the lights of the Magic Fountains. My contemplation of Gaudi’s masterpieces coupled a walk forcing my soles to entire the length of Diagonal, Barcelona’s main thoroughfare. But through all of this, I figured to learn almost no Spanish.
“God must really be on my side.”
“Anthony, are you okay?” David asked.
“I awake from my Bridge to Tabitha”
“Yeah, I’m cool. Feeling a little blue. That’s all.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Let’s do this!” summoning my strength.
“So no regrets. It’s all about the ride. Take the ride!” David advised brotherly.
“I guess you’re right. The rest of Spain awaits me. Barcelona is just a piece of the pie, a snapshot among many. Bring on the drinks and the señoritas, señoras tambien!” I declared.
“Let’s hit the strip first. Then, we’ll swing by the Jamboree, and see what happens from there. I know you have to leave tomorrow, so I won’t keep you out too
late.”
“Look, D., I’m cool, really. No sleep for me tonight. I’ll sleep on the train. Besides, I get insomnia before every departure.”
We walked over to Las Ramblas to see what the strip had to offer. Having drained two six-packs, we made a beeline to the Jamboree but found nothing to our liking. The Jamboree lucidly reminded me of a watered-down version of a San Francisco club. Its biggest attraction was that it is multi-ethnic. The biggest drawback is the music: a one-sided version of hip-hop, so-called gangster à la L. A. Apparently, the DJ’s had never heard of the Native Tongue School.
Here, I saw an Imitation of Life, American style. Spanish kids emulated American mannerisms of cool, wearing black American hip-hop attire, fashion for the
Streets. Jet-black Senegalese and Ghanaians, dressed like Brooklynites, gesticulated as West Coast players, and holding seas of Spanish girls enthralled. I saw the culture I
had grown up in, my culture, mimicked by Spaniards and Africans, alike. Television had managed to culturally appropriate us in Western Europe. We were culture stolen, sold, bought, repackaged, reshaped, repurposed, and denied, just to be re-identified for commodity sake. I was disgusted and intrigued. This would become my impetus to inquire what these cultural pirates really thought. But how was I to engage people who spoke Wolef, Twi, and Spanish? I didn’t want to assume anything, because brothers from Africa could surprise you with their linguistic prowess. The poet Paradise is right, they love everything about you but you. Everybody wants the Black experience, but doesn’t want to experience being Black. That badge costs too much to bear.
COPYRIGHT © 2020 NATHAN A. JONES