In the Placa De George Orwell

Chp. 2: In the Placa de George Orwell

The next morning Claudia was eager to see her old friend and left the apartment before Elliot woke. He didn't sleep past nine most days and it was just before then so, Elliot awoke and soaked in the silence. Spending a few moments stretching and yawning, he worked his way out of bed and dressed himself before walking down the hallway to drink a full glass of water, pour another full glass of water, and then drank a small thing of orange juice. As he slurped the sweet drink his eyes focused outside of the window above the sink, onto the city. The kitchen had a fantastic set of windows that opened vertically. With great gumption to start to his day, Elliot moved the sliders with his free hand and let the warm sea-salted breeze blow through his curly brown hair and open his lungs. It was early June and the Mediterranean air had a specific scent to it that Elliot admired entirely. Hearing the cathedral bells ring four times, the boy started his way down the apartment stairs with a hat on his head and a tote bag on his side.

Exactly where Elliot was off to was not clear. The boy usually walked for at least thirty minutes before deciding what he should do for the day, prompted by an inviting storefront, festival, or whatever thing he might find in the city. Around 9:35 Elliot walked into La Granja Dulcinea and ordered churros con chocolate for two euros, which was a bit more expensive than he usually paid but he had made his way into the city center where generally, things were more expensive. Four piping hot, crispy churros with a small cup of thick hot chocolate were dropped off at Elliot's small table and many of the people passing by looked at him as they walked. Elliot had this effect naturally as he was seriously sharp-looking. The boy was from the Eastern United States but he identified more with the Southern European lifestyle that revolves around the sun. When he was only ten years old Elliot had visited Barcelona with his parents and they spent their weekend on a catamaran drinking. He was the only child on the boat that weekend and had a considerably less pleasant time than the adults. Elliot did remember this trip though, and he remembered seeing all of the tiny far off people moving around over on the shore, Elliot wondering who they were. The boy remembered hearing his father talk about staying away from any Catalan boats because they were communists and thieves and telling tales of pickpockets and gypsies as a way to explain why they wouldn't go ashore. Elliot recalled leaving the port and watching the city fade away and turn into nothing more than a memory. Finishing his last churro Elliot heard the clock ring four times.

"Ten O'Clock," he thought.

Elliot made his way down Las Ramblas, a busy street for tourists and locals alike where he enjoyed seeing flowers, birds, musicians, pet shops, and trees that hugged all of the hundreds of people passing through. He strolled by the market called La Boqueria where Alan worked and decided to go inside. Walking once again to the back of the market Elliot weaved his way in-between the wandering tourists and found Alan's stall, but it was closed.

"Hmm."

The boy looked to the neighboring stalls and they shook their head and raised their shoulders. Alan had a habit of drinking too much and not showing up for his commitments so, Elliot moved onward and ordered a small amount of jamon iberico and made his way towards Placa de George Orwell, a small placa further down Las Ramblas close to the Gothic Quarter. There he sat down and admired the surrealist sculpture that had just been built by Leandre Cristofola. Elliot pulled out his jamon iberico and the novel, "The Sun Also Rises," by Hemingway, pulled down his hat a bit, and began to read.

Two hours passed and the boy dozed off to sleep. The cathedral clock rang four times and on the last ring, Elliot awoke gently and looked around. One of the lunchtime restaurants had begun to open and workers casually set up tables. Elliot had finished his jamon a while ago and felt he could use a bit of caffeine to wake himself back up so he walked into the cafe and noticed a small black cat meowing softly. The boy scratched the cats head and smiled. Looking onward he noticed no-one was at the counter, only voices in the back. Elliot stood there for a moment before pulling out his book waiting for someone to take his order.

"Bon dia, what can I get for you?"

Elliot looked up.

"Bon dia, un cafe amb llet si us plau." 

"D'accord."

He watched the fellow prepare his coffee and a few other people began to come inside, eager for their afternoon pick me up. The barista was slim, tall, very Catalan looking with his olive skin tone and light facial hair. He wore small golden hoops in his ears and a very thin nose ring on his left nostril.

"Un cafe amb llet?"

Elliot reached out for his drink and made eye contact with the boy. They both looked at each other for a moment as if they were both thinking the same thing.

"I think... uh,"

"You look familiar."

"You do also..."

"Did I, see you for a moment yesterday?"

"I think we saw each other yea? In La Boqueria."

"Yes exactly!" the barista smiling while he spoke.

"I was buying some fish from a friend."

"Oh? Who?"

Elliot began to feel nervous as a line was forming behind him.

"Alan... the fisherm..."

"Yes! With only one eye." He chuckled as the two looked at each other.

The barista also felt pressure to get back to work as onlookers thought up their orders.

"Looks like you're not the only one who would like coffee." He rolled his eyes. "It's good to meet you."

"Yea," Elliot smiled softly, "same to you."

Elliot began to turn around and walk away before realizing he hadn't gotten the baristas' name.

"I'm sorry... I didn't get your name."

The barista turned to him in the middle of taking another order, smiled, and said, "Guifre."

He reached out his hand, and the two touched for the first time.