Barcelona is waking, in it’s own characteristically care free manner. The sun, peeking shyly through a gossamer sky, gently caresses the outstreched arms of Jesus, atop the Temple Expiatori del Sagrat Cor, then the big wheel in the Tibidabo funfair and lower, to the top of the Torre Agbar and across the city, laying its first tendrils over the districts of L’Eixample, Gràcia and Montjuïc, Barri Gotic and Las Ramblas. In the cranes and scaffolding high above La Sagrada Família, pigeons frantically vie for position, then lazily observe their domain. The world below them is slowly coming alive.
Two Cuitat Municipales escombriaires wend their way through the Gotic, brushing and hosing down the paving on Escudellers, meanwhile the refuse and recycling trucks scurry along, collecting the detritus from the day before. Vehicles on Diagonal and throughout the city, more sparse than during the day, nevertheless continue to pulse from traffic light to traffic light. Handfuls of Scooters and mopeds weave between cars, trucks and buses with an abandon that would make out of town onlookers wince, their daredevil pilots determined to make it to their destination as quickly as possible. Bakers and builders and butchers and baristas and teachers and bus drivers, and many more of the army of humanity that make the city live and breathe, turn off the violent urgency of their alarm clocks and curse the early hour, or lie, soaking in the first rays of the days sun, as they contemplate the day ahead.
In deep contrast to this, giggling and blinking against the sunlight, a figure half falls, half stumbles out of the depths of the Metro at Passeig de Gracia. The figure straightens up quickly and, in reply to a virtually inaudible catcall from a passing driver, a desultory middle finger is flicked in salute. Cass has been in BCN for precisely two months, the passing of which required toasting, quite a few times apparently. And she’s loving it.