The shade of the speakeasy was purple. Eye shadow purple. The pale kind of purple that traces sunsets and doesn’t get burnt. It was perhaps the last place one expected to encounter violence. But before the night was through, the hazy purple hue would be mottled with the spatter of blood and the howls of human fright.
The honeymooners were from New York. Lyndon a Columbia Journalism grad and Chloe an original Coyote Ugly. Cuter than sea otters on saline.
Polish Walter had less certain origins. Balkans perhaps. Budapest maybe. There was an illegal border crossing somewhere in his bullshit backstory. But nobody cared. He was just too affable.
I told the honeymooners about the people I’d been meeting in Barcelona while sitting next to them at the Irish Pub. I was being stood up at the time, unbeknownst to me, and the honeymooners were casually watching soccer on the TV. I should be in Munich, I informed them. But this girl I met last night. I let out a low whistle. I wasn’t great at whistling so I actually just blew air at them. This girl, man. Well when she arrives you’ll understand my predicament. She looks like Punky Brewster. Grown up of course. Lyndon raised his brow at the reference and shot me a knowing glance as he tipped back his bottle of Estrella.
Isn’t this why you travel? Punky had asked me the night before. To change plans when you meet new people? Her leg brushed into mine under the table and she held it there long enough for me to know it wasn’t an accident. You know, being spontaneous? She pronounced the word “spontaneous” with her whole mouth. Like she’d just pulled out a tootsie pop. As she shifted her weight forward it brought her proportions into symmetry. She had mocha colored eyes and curves like a sand dune. Upon learning of my early morning train she had launched a delightful protest aimed at postponing my departure. Her physical curvature combined with exceptional rhetorical skills ultimately bent my timeline. We shared a kiss in a 2am alley sitting knee to knee under a fire escape, puffing from the same Camel Wide, promising to meet the following night.
And there I was. The following night. And there she was not. And now I’d extended my stay at the guesthouse and alerted my future accommodation of changed plans and eaten reservation fees and cancellations fees and non-refundable train ticket fees and I was cursing that damn Punky Brewster with the ferocity of an arch fiend diablo serpent when the honeymooners entered stage left and yanked me back to the present.
You’re in Barcelona, Izzy. They reminded me.
Las Ramblas for chris’-sake.
Damn. You’re right. I said, and looked out the pub’s window as dusk settled in. This sure is cool isn’t it?
Las Ramblas is a 1,500 meter promenade that mixes the carnival-like feel of street performers with the relaxed aroma of placid cafes and sangria quaffing locals. Slack-eyed tourists march down its tree lined center dodging kamikaze pigeons and ph.d-level pick pockets. No tanning salons or dental offices are in the vicinity. There’s no need. Everyone is beautiful, even the panhandlers.
Polish Walter wasn’t a panhandler but I’d met him on a curb. Upon realizing we shared a mutual appreciation for drinking liquor from repurposed receptacles, we cheersed our styrofoam cups and strolled the streets of the gothic quarter with our bargain buzzes while planning future engagements with the Catalina nightlife. This became our routine. Perching together in public, then patrolling the scene before picking our spots to party. He had an earnest disposition and a youthful glee and we enthusiastically shared our email addresses each night during our legless pie-eyed walks home. I’m convinced we’d have been friends for life if we ever scribbled them legibly.
The New Yorkers invited Walter and I to meet them in a plaza near a speakeasy the following night. Leave your plastic cups, we’re buying, they said. The bar didn’t open until 1am, so the plan was to kill time playing cards and eating tapas in the plaza until it did.
The New Yorkers had a kinetic goodness to them. An unrelenting energy that seemed impervious to any manner of disruption. If one gains access to the strata of people like that, you can’t help but catch ions of buoyancy from the gills of their positive propulsion.
Good things happened to them because they held no fear of the future. They had not yet become impatient with time.
We sat in the tranquil plaza de la concordia as it filled with a warm Mediterranean breeze and the echo’s of troubadours bouncing off the 200 year old church walls. The east coasters laughed at my alleged overuse of the word “dude” and everyone laughed at Walters english, which seamlessly combined the overly formal with the highly profane.
While playing cards, the real answer to Punky’s question returned to me. This…THIS is why you travel. The four of us were the perfect impromptu traveling package. Aligned for the exquisite moment. Like a commingled dream.
At some point the honeymooners led us to the speakeasy. Despite conducting voluminous research prior to visiting, Walter insisted he’d seen no reference to the place. I guess that’s by design. Speakeasies aren’t meant to be spoken of. But the Manhattan Sea Otters were a different breed. Quintessentially cool. People shared secrets with them. They arrived in new countries and didn’t need to learn the ropes because they were already tying a few of them on.
I guess we’re supposed to ring the doorbell? Chloe said, to no one in particular, while pressing, apparently at random, one of the many apartment buttons where the bar was rumored to dwell. How do you know which one to ring? I asked. Someone stuck their head out the window from high up in the complex, smudging out the night like the back-end of a #2 pencil. Chloe gave me a surprised look, then excitedly cupped her hands to her mouth and loudly whispered up blind pigs! at the figure. This caused a fuzzy oval object to descend onto us, which I eventually realized was a bucket. Moltissimes Gracies! Yelled Chloe, shaking her ass like a giddy rabbit and doing a little hop as she pulled an antique key from the bucket and inserted it into the door. Back please! Yelled the heavy accent from above. Chloe returned the key from the ancient door and dropped it in the bucket, which was immediately raised up by rope. She pushed open the creaky door with both her arms, then paused and turned dramatically, like entering a prominent castle. Gentlemen, your destiny awaits. She said with a curtsy.
We followed the music up three flights of stairs. The third floor landing led us to a vaulted archway which we took as the entrance. The colors changed as we continued walking and it felt like entering the set of a play. No one stirred or looked up, yet every corner of the joint held action. Lyndon and Chloe were at ease in the environment and waltzed forward (it probably begs mentioning both were off-broadway actors) while Walter and I moved awkwardly like stagehands who had accidentally wandered on set.
We headed towards the bar at the far end of the long narrow room. Despite not feeling crowded, the stools up at the bar were the only spot that appeared to lack patronage. Each room we passed along the way looked like a different scene from Farewell to Arms. During the Italian evacuation. The townsfolk, having received their last rites, were now draining drinks in anticipation of the gallows. The first room contained lovers passionately kissing. The next room had a group of four passed out in unison, as if under a shared spell. One hand still loosely clutched the hose from a hookah stem. Like mannequins curated into a permanent rest.
We approached the bartender and stared at her. Not sure if there would be performance art. The bartender wore a brocade vest and corduroy coat. She was beautiful but I wasn’t attracted to her, which made me like her all the more. One could tell she’d developed a comfort level suffering the examinations of visitors. But unlike some bartenders (Chloe came to mind) she didn’t relish the exercise.
What’s good? Lyndon finally asked.
Absinthe. She replied rotely, fidgeting with a shaker. Then upon inspecting Lyndon from under her eyebrow, decided the attractive gentleman inspired extended engagement.
Are you familiar?
He turned to me.
Issy? You our resident absinthe expert?
Wormwood. Sure. I lied. The green fairy. I knew nothing about absinthe other than it maintained a curious mystic quality and was barely legal stateside. Rumors persisted of its hallucinogenic properties.
Baudelaire drank it for breakfast. Lets do doubles. I said.
Cool! Piped in Chloe. Then scampered off.
I always let the good ones go, mused Lyndon, as Chloe exited ear shot. We followed Chloe’s movements like three dogs watching a favorite stick get tossed in a lake—the booze had eliminated the need to pretend we weren’t all hypnotized by her.
Good thing you’re on your honeymoon then. I said.
Lyndon smiled. Yeah. Well. She’s in love with someone else.
Walter looked up from his menu. His english good enough to realize this was a problem.
That does complicate things. I said.
Lyndon relaxed his face and studied the bottles behind the bar. I love her too much though bro. I’ll take what she’ll give.
I think she’s just looking for the ol’ W/C now. I said. You shouldn’t have much to worry about.
Lyndon turned towards me.
In the near term anyway. I finished.
He gave me a look that let me know either my comedic timing was off or a new thought just occurred to him.
Does this place even have a bathroom? Chloe returned annoyed and wedged herself between Lyndon and me – half assedly sitting half her ass on his lap in the stool.
I studied the place while the servers got out their spoons and sugar and began the absinth ritual. The air was old and mixed with stained chestnut and black licorice. The walls were purple and black. Black as a ravens wing. And most every corner was filled with chalices and chandeliers. In the far room a young woman lay behind a giant wooden gramophone player, little gusts of music wailed around her but she didn’t stir. Everyone seemed on either MDMA or Quaaludes. There was no middle ground.
We bantered playfully for a while with the server. Since Chloe and Lyndon flirted with everyone, a new female added a stimulating dynamic. We lost track of time sipping our absinthe and apparently a shift change occurred. We thought nothing of it, until there was some disruption at our periphery.
I looked over at the commotion just as a male manager grabbed our cute bartenders head with both hands like he might bring her in for a dramatic kiss, and then threw her head off the back wall like a basketball chest pass until it smacked with a sickening thwack. Upon recoiling she ran screaming down the hallway holding her head, which was already seeping blood through her fingers. I jumped from my chair with a spine sparked with adrenaline.
What the fuck! Walter said. For all of us. The assailant stomped loudly down stairs behind the bar and was soon accompanied by yells. Two servers hurried after the girl.
I started behind the bar to follow the dude. Wait. Lyndon grabbed my arm.
We are fucking foreigners, bro.
What if they need a witness? I said, impatiently.
Or to knock his ass! Walter added.
We can’t get involved. Lyndon said. We’ve got pot on us and are surely not reliable to the questioning of questionable authorities.
I am leaving if we arent helping. Chloe hissed, aiming dagger eyes at Lyndon and tossing things in her purse.
We left disturbed. Uncertain of where to go and saddened the greatest night cap on record (I keep a record) ended in ugly night crap. As we walked La Rambla, the Mediterranean air felt thick and hung over us like a pall. Smirking. The trade winds had turned. We were no longer observing it but rather it, us. Prostitutes and petty thieves emerged from porches and from unlit eaves, no longer slithering around the edges of society, empowered by the night. I thought of Punky and our kiss in one of these same alleys, shielded at the time by amorous entanglement. And like a ghost, Punky appeared. Walking towards us with two bikes. I stopped abruptly, causing our group to pause. She saw us, yet seemed to look right through us. I allowed myself to entertain, for just a moment, that she’d had a brief lapse of judgment and followed me here to make amends. As quickly as the thought arrived, a male companion appeared from the fog behind her. When he reached her side he took his bike from her hand and they continued on wordlessly together. Close enough to touch.
Was that a dream?
She’s cute bro. Lyndon shrugged. Starting to walk again.
You could do better. Chloe said. Then added without humor.
“Dude”.
Walter stuck his email address in my pocket and gently nudged me forward.
It was time for that train to Munich.
*The bar discussed herein the author has difficulty recommending, given the “hands on” management style. There was however a second speakeasy reviewed on a different night. No staff were harmed during that visit:
What: Pipa Club, A Sherlock Holmes themed speakeasy.
Where: Pl Reial, 3 08002, Barcelona, 3rd floor.
When: 22:00-03:00
Misc: It is a private smokers club, but you don’t need to be a member (or have a jacket) to enter.
There is no signage……. but sometimes there is jazz.
Uncharted Dives 