by Rob Rotell
I step onto the moving walkway in the spacious underground channel between tracks at Diagonal Station, and I lean against the glass shield, and relax. I’m tired, my eyes are red; I’ve just spent the last two hours walking in the dark, looking for a metro station after a late night movie at Yelmo Icaria Cinema. It’s past midnight, Friday going into Saturday, and the drunks, the drugged, and nicely dressed are out, crowding the subway stations, yelling in their languages, frotteuring and ignoring.
Under the rails of the moving walkway, taped to the glass panels, are small books with a picture of a dinosaur’s brown skeleton on their black covers, with Catalan-slash-Castellan titles, and overhead are poster boards with a sans-serif grunge font, all featuring a single, distinctive word in Catalan,—ads for a history museum, judging from the cognates. I don’t pay much attention to what the signs say, not tonight, but I’ve been here so many times, none of this is new, all routine, daily, things I saw yesterday, things I’ll see after the weekend when I’m on my way to class in Catalunya Plaça.
Across the channel are three teens, hoodies and low-riding pants, American fashion styles that finally crossed the ocean, shouting at each other, hooting, “Ola, ola!” to the girls in the figure-hugging black dresses that expose the shoulders, tops of their breasts, and their legs up to the onset in the curves of their asses. One of the kids grabs a book from the glass panels, faux-reading, flipping through the pages—a scripted action, what you do with the book, no interest in the contents inside—until one of his amigos took the libro and blindly flung it aside.
I put my hand up in time to deflect it, and when the kids saw me, they quickly put their hands in front of them, in defense, and apologized, “Lo siento! Lo siento!” Pissed off, I stare away and stick out my middle finger at them. They start laughing.
Later I realized why—they didn’t laugh because I followed a mischief act with another—they laughed because the middle finger was American. They thought, It’s just an American.
* * *
* * *
The metro system underneath the sprawling metropolis of Barcelona, Spain has one hundred and sixty-nine active stations and the rails go a distance of seventy-two miles. Each car is capable of holding two hundred and thirty-six standing travelers, and twenty-two sitting. The metro system pumps its travelers across the city through eleven lines, each station and each line with its own personality. The older lines, like the red line, L1, had old, yellowing trains, with old, outdated display systems, gummy chairs, dirty windows. A newer line, like the green line, L3, which goes through Diagonal station, is newer, cleaner. Diagonal station has several mixed art murals decorating subdued blue walls.
The metro system is the most affordable system of fast transportation—go anywhere, get anywhere. In my program, there were kids who didn’t know how to walk from their homestays to the building where classes were held. They only knew what lines to change at what station. Get on at Entença, go towards Hospital de Bellvitge, change to the red line at Plaça de Sants, go towards Fondo, and get off at Catalunya Plaça. If they couldn’t take the subway, they would be lost in the criss-cross streets of Eixample, navigating the perfectly square blocks, trying to find home.
* * *
I walked down the stairs into Barceloneta Station, after a long afternoon at the beach. Each step imprinted in the floor was laced with sand that I kicked from my sneakers. The crease in the rubber bottom of my backpack brimmed with sand. After I stuck in my T10 ticket, passed the gate, and walked down the stairs to the platform for the train going towards Hospital de Bellvitge, I unshouldered my backpack and shook it, trying to clean it up, because if I didn’t now, it would be carpeting the floor at my señora’s apartment. As I sat down, putting my backpack on my knee, I looked up briefly at the digital counter, indicating cuando the next train would arrive, and I double-took to see this couple kissing, in the middle of the platform.
The girl’s arms are on his chest, hands on his pecs, and the guy’s arms are around her back, drawing her close. Their eyes are closed, and when they break their kiss, their eyes remain closed, the only movement being the smiles they make. They kiss again. I put my backpack between my legs. I’m smiling. I know I shouldn’t be looking, mind your own business, all that shit, but this Spain, Europe, in these countries, public affection is okay, express your feelings, express your love—the giddiness of seeing people kissing on the street, holding hand-in-hand, so un-puritan, that giddiness is infectious—the only loser being the guy who doesn’t have a woman to hold on to (me, but fuck that, I’m a visitor here, I have an excuse, that’s what I keep telling myself)—
The guy and the girl are wrapped around each other, kissing, smiling. I’m looking around the platform, who else is looking?, nobody, just me, it’s me and these kissers, it’s silent energy, my deep appreciation of these two, what more could brighten my day?, enlighten me?
The train rolls in. The doors open. People shuffle out, some in bathing suits, some in fancy clothing, some in t-shirts and shorts, all on-course, walking to their destination, shifting around this couple. I hop onto the train, but I keep my eye on the couple. The woman steps onto the train, looks at the man still on the platform, they’re still holding hands. Then he pulls her off, she’s smiling, and they both retreat back onto the platform, kissing, as I stand by the door, and the train drove into the dark.
Rob Rotell is a senior creative writing major at Susquehanna University from York, Pa. He has done layout and design work on RiverCraft, The Apprentice Writer, The Susquehanna Review, and Susquehanna University's Common Reading. His fiction has also appeared in The Susquehanna Reivew.
Also by Rob Rotell: "Corn Stalks"
Coming next week: nonfiction by Emily Northey
No comments:
Post a Comment