I escape the heat and the crowd into the magical surroundings of ancient roman temple ruins zealously guarded by a medieval building. The columns of the Temple of Augustus command such majesty and authority. It is completely silent. If these walls and columns of stone could speak, they would tell tall tales of the Roman times. They have seen the transformation from the Roman city Barcino into the modern metropolis we know today. I meditate on the serene atmosphere.
Just behind the cathedral, a small alley. Murals of knights slaying dragons of another age adorn the ancient stone walls. A set of windows open to the street. Inviting. There is the magnificent Jeff Buckley debut album “Grace” pouring from the speakers. I take that as a good omen as I step into the cool shade of Bar Gaelic BCN. I am the only customer. Time is standing still. I have no idea what time it is, and to be honest, I don’t want to know. I ask the Bartender, who turns out to be the owner, for something local. Who in their right mind would eat at McDonalds, or drink some Pisswasser (export only) in this city? What I get is Barcelona Beer Company’s IPA, Cerdos Voladores “Honest Made Beer”. Oh dear, an explosion of extremely lusty and bitter hops. There is nothing sophisticated or balanced going on in this beverage. Well, the bottle says it’s “rowdy”. I heartily agree.
“Lilac Wine” rushes in from the sound system. I hum along. The interior is positively 1930’s with the appropriate advertisement placed on the walls. This place has been here for aeons. So much history here as well. I have this fine establishment all to myself. The hordes of tourist wander outside towards the cathedral, like the white walkers, to worship the touristy things. Do they understand how many lives were lost, and how much blood was spilled, constructing these houses for an idea of an imaginary being, I find myself thinking. If there ever was a god, he has not been around here for a long time.
The live version of “Eternal Life” is blowing dust from the speakers. Everything in life is better with Jeff Buckley. I am not present in this day or age. I am somewhere outside this whole construct.
I find myself sampling a bottle of Barcino “Bogatell Wheat”, which is like drinking clear spring water flavoured with pine needles and spices. There is something really ancient happening in that bottle of beer. It occurs to me then that the drinking establishment in question has been built exactly where the inner sanctum of the Temple of Augustus was two thousand years ago. I quietly salut Gaius Julius Octavius, whom became Emperor Augustus. That’s the least I can do, since I am in his house.
“There is a child sleeping near his twin.
The pictures go wild in a rush of wind.
That dark angel he is shuffling in,
watching over them with his black feather wings unfurled” -Jeff Buckley, Dream Brother
The owner of the bar remarks that it is “something of a national sport to open a restaurant in Barcelona”. There is also an another reason behind the amount of restaurants in Barcelona: a lot of the operations are funded and backed by Russian and Chinese operators. Certain places positively empty of customers year after year, and still the doors remain open. The Russians and Chinese are aggressively buying new businesses and property, I am told. Very lucrative deals are offered at exceeding rate.
After three different local beers and Brew Dogs “Punk Ipa”, the post modern classic pale ale from Maryland, I am positively sloshed. Writing is easy. I am so going to “Hank Moody” this motherfucker. Words flow effortlessly to the page. This is the moment I have feared, as I feel like I am writing better, and easier with a little alcohol. There is no pain or anguish here. There is no existential crisis, or the pathetic whining of a misunderstood artist. My fingers hit the keys faster and faster. A sentence after sentence forms out of thin air. The muse has arrived. I will bow down to her and I will worship her. I have always felt deep resentment towards writing, or doing anything creative, under the influence. There is something about it, which I find very dissatisfying. I guess I don’t want to dull my senses when giving something of myself. Yes, that’s what it is. Dull. Numb. How is it that I am enjoying this so much?
