There is a bar, it’s in Barcelona, and it’s a mythical bar.
If it’s not, it will be when this is written.
I’ve heard two words in here tonight more often than any other two
words – “revolución” and “okupa”. You Anglophiles can work out the
former, the latter is short for the word “occupied”, meaning
squatted. Most here have their accommodation for tonight secured in this way.
Each of the last three drinks, each the same, has had a different price.
The scene is detailed. Every second light is broken, the ones that work have enviro-friendly bulbs, the only concession here to modernity. Duct tape keeps the air conditioner in place, the bottled alcohol is heavy on the absinthe, the oft-repeated hand-written notices along the walls inform music-off at 22.00, no service after 22.15, and closing time 22.30. The CD is skipping, no one seems to notice. Each of the last three drinks, each the same, has had a different price. There’s a distinct aroma of damp,

The Bar, Barcelona
the type you get when people wear clothes not properly dried. More signs declare that lost keys, clothes, shoes and “other objects” not claimed before the end of March will be unavailable thereafter. The end of March, apparently is March 31. Che Gueverra appears in… I think six locations that I can see. There’s a collection going for “Anarchistic Prisoners”. There are five high stools, one of which I’ve got, all others are occupied. That leaves us with six others standing, four with dreadlocks. You might get two more people in here, but there’s room for no more. Each order is accompanied by an offer of some nuts, crisps or popcorn. It’s a glorified former corridor of an apartment block, but it’s the first time the word “glorified” has ever been used in conjunction with this place. Truth is, I’m the only one in here drinking this kind of beer, that may be because it’s 20cent a bottle more expensive than the house standard. I haven’t seen a denomination in here greater in value than a fiver.
Here’s a possible candidate though. He’s arrived just now, his circumference running about 70% the width of the bar. He’s ordering a tequila – no not that one, a good one – and to go with it… tabasco. Three drops. This has gotten the attention of the bar. Impressive. A few heads turn. Downed it in one go. Another one ordered, two drops this time. And then a slug of beer. Really must try this at home. He doesn’t have a seat, he’s eyeing mine. Dublin Bus rules are: much older, more pregnant, more crutches than you, then you give up your seat. He’s just huge, and ugly, so I’m staying put.
The barman, Miguel, they’re calling him, is doing more lipreading than listening. It’s not that it’s overly loud in here, but he’s deaf. A large see-through-that-you-can-see cable leads from somewhere down his back and up and around his ear lobe, and lodges in a bushel of hair shooting from his earhole.
Nice guy, Basque cap upon his head. He has the respect of these people, thirty years his junior. He’s digging into a plastic bucket of crisps right now, the scoopability of his bare hand being used to full effect.
The smoking ban has just come in. There’s still confusion about it. Someone’s rolling-up. It’s agreed that it’s legal to do that. No question. Another asks if they’re gonna smoke it here. Miguel does hear this. A wave of the hand suggests that no, the street is the place. Mutter of discontent, this isn’t the crowd who naturally follow the rules. A rebellious clique of a rebellious generation, in a part of Spain struggling against being governed by a government they don’t recognise as truly theirs.
I’d like to think that little could tell me apart here, but I’ve no part-shaven head (the left side seems more popular), I order my beer with a foreign lilt, my hair’s not brushed but by no means platted or matted, I’m wearing a scarf the green label of which I should have concealed before I walked in here but it took me two minutes too long to notice, and I have blue eyes – that’s not normally something to be aware of – but tonight I’m most certainly the only only here who does. Do I want to fit in? Maybe just for a minute. Probably no more. Probably.
I exit. There are more people out here than in there. I get a brotherly handshake from Miguel on the way out. Acceptance of a kind.