We are going to see Els Bruguerol, with my daughter. I know Estel Solé, who is a panelist on Catalunya Migdia, and "it amuses me" to go see her, if you'll allow me the boomer expression. (I'm such a boomer, that until recently I didn't know the meaning of the expression boomer). One of these days you will be able to read in The New Barcelona Post, an interview with Ramon Madaula, actor and author of the play. For us, going to the theater is an excuse to go out, to do what we used to do: "be with strangers."
I didn't know I would miss the crowds of concerts, bars, streets, markets so much. I remember a specific crowd as one of the memorable moments of my life. But how many memorable moments will there be, in total, in our ordinary lives? How many memorable hours do we add up over an existence? Falling in love, births of children, hugs, a glass of wine, a piece of bread, a book, a song, a goal?
It was leaving Leonard Cohen's concert in Montjuïc. We were walking down, still singing So long, Marianne. And I thought: "All these people, like me, love Leonard Cohen." And we smiled (we wanted our smiles to be seen on our faces, and we couldn't imagine that one day we would wear masks and goodbye smile) to tell each other, without words: "I understand you, you are one of mine." We talked, amazed. We were happy to understand Leonard Cohen so much, to have seen him. And to have seen him, perhaps, for the last time. We joked about his manager, who swindled him and, unintentionally, made the man have to do one more tour. The one that took him to Barcelona. Yes, for the last time.
We left the Ferrocarriles (the "Catalan ones," everyone calls them) and bought an ice cream at that ice cream parlor ---it's a chain, because there's another one with the same name on the Rambla--- that you find next to the entrance of Sephora. The distinction of the establishment is that they put the paste on top of the cone, not in the shape of a ball, but in small plates that end up looking like flower petals. In the middle, where the calyx would be, they plant, if you want, a macaron (which acts as a pistil). The question is how to eat an ice cream, with the pandemic. You can't sit in the establishment because there are no chairs, and on the street you have to keep taking off and putting on your mask.
We pass in front of La Poma. Closed. It was always full of tourists and I suppose that under normal conditions (how it hurts to say "normal conditions") it would be open, to accommodate cruise passengers eager for tablaos and paella. I wonder, by the way, how are the people at Paellador doing? They must have lost a lot of business, I imagine, because theirs was a product very much designed for foreigners. Of all the dishes they have in stock, the one I find most amusing is the fideguay, which has pieces of frankfurter.
And then we see a very long queue on the right sidewalk towards the sea. It's the queue to enter the theater. The people at Poliorama have placed, in the car lane, some fences with signs and lights to prevent accidents. I approach the theater entrance and ask if it's the queue to buy or to enter. It's the queue to enter, an usher tells me. Most people, by the way, have their ticket on their mobile, not on paper.
I retrace my steps and return with my daughter, who licks, as best she can, her ice cream. "When Easter is over, they will close us again. They are already saying it," exclaims a very well-dressed lady. "Yes, look, but we are not doing anything wrong, we are here with our masks," replies another. They are three elderly women who are clearly regulars at the theater. "Long live Covid!" someone shouts from a car.
As we move forward (we move very quickly) I notice the display window of the modernist pharmacy. There is a sign that surprises me and that also has to do with the pandemic. It says: "Have you lost your sense of smell and taste? Haven't you fully recovered it? We have the solution here! Olfae. First training kit for the recovery of smell." I would like to check how it works. I promise to buy it and explain how it goes. I suppose it is a new product born out of necessity and entrepreneurship.
We arrived at the entrance. They ask us to put gel on our hands (they have a dispenser installed there) and to wait until those in front have entered. There are armchairs with a tape, like the police tape, to indicate that they are out of use. The voice of Pep Cruz (how I like his voice) tells us that the show is about to begin and that we cannot remove our masks at any time. I think about when we leave. I won't be able to greet Estel Solé, because it will be half past nine and we will have just enough time to get home before the curfew.
Nor will we be able to do what we always did when we went to the Poliorama. What we did, for example, before the pandemic, when we went to see The Importance of Being Earnest. What I really like about this theater ---I've said it on occasion--- is that there's a door that leads directly to the Viena, which is wall to wall. Now it's closed, of course. It's the wonderful idea of the perfect mix; the epigraph Hospitality and shows. How happy we were, and I hope we will be again, leaving the play and going for a beer and a loin with cheese at the Viena, packed with people doing the same thing. Hearing the waiters shout: "A Zipi Zape!". Which means "a Cebapcice".
Let me stop for a moment here. Cebapcice (my mouth is watering) is a dish you can find in street stalls in Bulgaria or Bosnia. In more places, too, with similar names. It's minced meat on a wonderful bread called lepinja. It has chopped onion and kajmak, which is a kind of dairy cream. At the Viena they make it with minced beef, with mustard and pepper, roasted onion and emmental cheese. Zipi Zape. The lights go out.