Last night David Brown and Brazzaville were playing at TASS. I hadn't planned on going, but everything just fell into place and I ended up having a really great time at the concert. His 'Clouds in Camarillo' has been getting me ever since the summer of 2007. This time we had a nice chat after the concert. There's positively something out of this world about him. He says he loves small atmospheric towns like the one where he's playing tonight. I asked him whether he still lives in Barcelona. He says he does, because it still inspires him in a very special way. And I must admit, Barcelona is a very special place. I've been there a couple of times and it did leave a trace in me. It provoked a lengthy talk with a friend once. At night, at a hotel, having gallons of coffee. It went something like this:
- Do you like it here?
- That’s a tricky question. I can’t say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to it. I’ve developed a strange relationship with Barcelona. I’m always here unexpectedly; usually en route somewhere else. This time is no exception. Did I know leaving New York in June that we’d next see each other in Barcelona? My mind tells me I’ll never love it as much as I love London and Paris, but my heart keeps falling in love with Barcelona every single time I end up here. And each time it lasts but a few days.
- Go on, that’s getting interesting! Do you remember your first time? Your first impression?
- You bet! First and foremost was fleur d’oranger.
- Fleur d’oranger?
- Exactly. Once mother and I went here for a week at the end of February. She went on business, I accompanied her. I don’t know why she took me with her, she normally didn’t. Maybe because it was just before my birthday and she allowed me to skip several days at school or maybe because she wanted to distract me from the pangs of my awkward first love.
- How old were you?
- Fifteen and everything was hopeless. London was forever raining, while in Barcelona it was already spring. Can you imagine, just an hour by plane and you are in a different season. Plants were in bloom, including orange trees. That’s what particularly struck me – the smell of fleur d’oranger. Nothing compares to it. We stayed at a small hotel in Eixample and in the mornings when mother was busy in her gallery I went for a walk on my own. I walked down La Rambla to the port and then looked for some park and everywhere I went I could smell fleur d’oranger. The whole city was shrouded in the bitter smell of unborn oranges, which is far more complicated than that of ripe oranges. My feelings were somehow similar – bitter and hopeless. The feelings which were never to develop just like I was never to see how the white blossoms on the trees would turn into fruits. Don’t you know why I’m telling you all this?
- I reckon I do. What’s between you and Barcelona this time?
- This time it’s even more complicated, but also more interesting. I’ve only been here a couple of hours and she’s already under my skin and it doesn’t matter if this feeling will evaporate as soon as I leave her. It’s important I’m having it – here and now. She is the most reckless and eccentric city I’ve ever been to. She pulls out the inmost. She’s different and unpredictable every time and you never know what she turns out to be next. Strangers cast an eye on you as if they know everything about you and you can’t hide anything. She is like litmus paper which reveals the most intense and hidden feelings. Only for an instant, though, and it’s ever so fleeting. Besides, here the presence of the sea is more evident to me than anywhere else. She lives and breathes the sea. Everything comes to her by the sea; everything goes from her by the sea. And she’s stood still for two thousand years already and is pretty infuriated about that.
I think it's high time I got back to you, Barcelona!
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