Vignettes of Poblenou

By: Angel Perdomo

8:30 in the morning. The sound of jackhammer and the beeps of loading trucks and excavators serves as my alarm clock for me, the whole building, and probably the rest of the street. At 9:30 a sudden rain pours down, and the heavy machinery stops. White noise sets in, and by 10:00 it is a storm.

I am excited about this new chapter in my life. I have never lived in a big city like Barcelona. In my rented room, I lay and think of going out despite the rain. I do so. The wind is not so bad, I think, an umbrella is enough (it was not enough). I grab my camera, hook the belt hoops of my trousers. The heavy front door seems to shut with more force than intended. “Sorry,” I whisper to whomever I may have disturbed. I walk down the stairs, each step echoed through the building alongside the jingle of my keys. Outside of the building there is a ramp over mud where yesterday there were stone slabs.

They are renewing La Rambla. All over the city this seems to be the case; different corners here and there are under construction. I guess all big cities are like that: always growing, changing, evolving. And in fact, I think Barcelona has the most faithful symbol to its reality. La Sagrada Familia, a never ending, always under construction art piece whose final finished form is beyond anyone’s life span—or is it just the result of poor governmental management, and things just break when you have thousands of people sharing and using the same space?

Heading down La Rambla, I get distracted by the greenery of some small red and pink flowers next to the road. There is a lot of green in this part of the city. I hear the sound of running water going into the storm drain in front of me. Behind me people walk by speaking Spanish, Catalan, and what I guess is some Semitic language—they probably think I’m a weirdo, I reckon as I take pictures of tiny pink flowers under the rain, awkwardly holding an umbrella at the same time. I keep walking, my feet wet.. For some reason, I had not stopped to consider that my shoes were not made for this weather, and the price to pay for that mistake was to now deal with his awful sensation: a squishy sound of being soaked.

In my little town back home, rain means that people stay inside, but not here. I was somewhat amazed by how many people were outside, going about their day as usual. Several people were jogging — I have since learned that there is always someone jogging in La Rambla no matter the time of day — some people were having their morning coffee outdoors under the parasols (now umbrellas), and the old men were reading their newspapers, business as usual. I guess in a way I had already adapted, seeing as I was also not cowering from the rain, as would be natural in my hometown.

During the day, La Rambla is full of life. Everything is always moving and you are under the assault of a cacophony of the sounds: the jingles from bicycle bells, the rumbling of trucks, the roar of motorbikes and cars, scooters zoom by. The percussive sounds of construction complement the madrigal of people's voices chatting away.

Last night I was out until quite late. At night La Rambla plays a different tune (unless las Fiestas del Poblenou are happening — in that case, nothing changes). Life slows down a bit. Fewer businesses are open, and the main population consist of Glovo delivery guys, all of them sporting electric scooters or bikes and waiting for orders to come in. Most of these guys appear to be either Latino or Morrocan; as you walk you can hear the language change from group to group. A social reality based on themes of migration and socioeconomic vulnerability largely unseen by the more privileged residents of this city — unless on a late night walk such as mine — who are the ones requesting their services. Another observation I make as the scenery changes from day to night are the many homeless people occupying the benches to sleep. Now, during this morning stroll I see a wet blanket covering a bench, I wonder “is its owner gonna be cold tonight?”

On my way back to my flat, I see la Torre Glóries, the glass phallic symbol of Barcelona — not my words, most people agree that it looks like a dildo. At night, it is illuminated by several coloured lights. Several tech companies have their offices there.

When I arrived in the city, the city’s fiestas were taking place. As you strolled around, you could find different stages for bands and DJs. As I passed through La Rambla, different genres of music were being played in each alley branching off from it. 2:00 in the morning, music blasting on the streets. I remember seeing this little girl dancing, not older than five or six, surrounded by adults and teens. I felt a bit anxious for the girl, but after paying attention and seeing that this was the case all around, I relaxed. Then I smiled, feeling like that neighbourhood I was to live in for the next couple months was at least a vibrant, happy place where kids can be kids and join their parents, siblings, and grandparents to celebrate. Or it was full of irresponsible drunk adults, and I should still be questioning why the fuck is there a kid at 2:00am partying!?

Either way, it promises to be an interesting place.

I get home at around 23:00, after a day of working my office job. Clicks from computer mice and tapping sounds from keyboards for eight hours. I try to close the heavy old door as quietly as possible. I undress and try to sleep. 23:30 a man screams at a child, not long after I can hear the sound of what seems to be women whispering unintelligible words. My window faces the building's inner patio. Voices travel up and down, echoing and clashing in ways that make it hard to determine their origin. Midnight, I can hear a light shower. The flat’s door opens and closes. Two voices greet in murmurs. Shortly after moans can be heard. “Shh!” says one of them. My roommate next door has a visitor. “At least he is trying to keep it down,” I thought. By 01:00 their sound is drowned by heavy rain, and I fall asleep.

8:30 in the morning, and La Rambla will not be finished until February. Jackhammers and heavy machinery it is.

I do not find myself missing the sepulchral quietness of my town. For now, at least, I am enjoying the ever-present lack of silence of Poblenou, Barcelona.