Adjacent to a busy street in Barcelona a dainty 4-star hotel gives way to a cocktail lounge turned library and coffeeshop by day. Pedestrian workers strain over an overstretched table filled with a laptop, notepad, chai tea, sugar, keys, headphone case and other acoutremenlt. Like an accountant with a coke problem this places takes a different form at night. Evenly spaced tables turn into legs and sequin'd tops commiserating with blokes and folks with funny names. But, for now, the room is fairly stationary and serves its purpose for work and people watching judgement. The polo dressed gentlemen using headphones that could block out streets of insidious construction grins and looks at my tattoos, probably wondering what I do for work and if i make a living or struggle to.
Desperately waning between the decision to indulge in narcotic beverages or keep it cerebral, the housewives of Barca sit beside me chuckling about their anticlimactic week-end. Each yearning for a moving share like an addict in a recovery room - thinking they are interesting but arrogantly mistaken - they are all the same. Are they laughing will each other, at one another or simple adhering to an innate characteristics attached to their social status. individual they clasp their hands under the table and pray for acceptance and being shunned from this benign inert and static conglomerate.
