Lost for Words

It was twenty-five years ago when my old pal, left The Big Smoke. Pete had struggled to get regular work as a snapper in London and had nothing to lose by accepting a staff photographer post with a Spanish newspaper. 

It’s only for a year, he’d said, enjoying one last pint with me the night before he left. 

You might meet the love of your life, I said 

You’re joking? A year will be enough for me. 

Clinking glasses together, we laughed.

I couldn’t stand all the excitement, he said, frowning. 

Neither of us believed it’d work out, however, he never returned. 

The hypnotic lights of Barcelona changed his life forever.

#

I visited Pete half a dozen times when he first moved to the Costa Brava. Before he bought his first car, he’d meet me at the airport on his new Yamaha Low-Rider. We’d grab a quick cortado and then I’d jump on the pillion seat, lean back and off we’d go. Pete used to weave between the slow-moving lanes of local traffic and zip past the dazzling overhead street lights. Those were the days before they enforced the helmet laws. I’m too long in the tooth to risk that now. The city’s pace of life has quadrupled and there’s way too much traffic.

#

Back in the day, the citizens of Barcelona spoke the Catalan language first and Spanish second. Pete was from South London, however he maintained his new position because his mother’s family lived in Girona and they all speak Catalan. He had plenty of opportunities to improve his fluency and enjoyed the challenge. Life was working out well for him and before long he showed no signs of returning to Britain.

#

I visited Barcelona in 1992, during Pete’s first year, and occasionally killed time if he was working late. Often I had to wait for him to process and deliver the day’s shots to his picture editor. Sometimes I’d wander around the immediate area, take in the sights and sample the local tapas bars. I made myself understood despite my poor command of Spanish and encountering few people who spoke English. Young British ravers hadn’t discovered Ibiza’s nightclub and started invading Barcelona en masse prior to sailing to the Balearic islands for endless nights of ecstasy-fuelled dancing. Nowadays, the locals would sooner speak English than Spanish and enjoy a share of the English currency that washes through the city.

When Pete first moved there, it was unusual to converse with an English-speaking native. In 1992, there was one fledgling language school run by a bunch of wayward British graduates. They were hispanophiles who loved the languid pace of life in Barcelona and taught English as a foreign language. The ramshackle language school business expanded way beyond their expectations and nowadays, it’s possible to hear the English tongue everywhere in the city; especially in the central tourist areas; former bastions of Catalan. 

#

When Pete’s father died, he visited London for the funeral. Gerry was only fifty-seven, which is no age to pass away nowadays. Pete had paid for his father’s flights to Barcelona and had made little effort to return to South London. He had forgotten the everyday stuff you take for granted when you live here. I collected him from Gatwick Airport in my car and he groaned when we joined the nose-to-tail traffic on the M23, heading back to central London. 

Is it always this bad? he asked. 

You’ve been in Spain too long, I said, laughing as we chugged to a standstill. 

I thought Barcelona was bad for traffic, Pete said. 

You ain’t seen nothing yet, I said. You’re lucky we missed rush hour. 

#

With life long friends it’s easy to pick up the conversation where it ended last time. Pete had regrets about not spending more time with his father. You know what? I said. It’s better to have quality time than to get bored and fight. True, he said, nodding and scanning the sea of metal boxes ahead. Is there any chance of a detour? 

You should have said you wanted the scenic route. 

We headed away from the congestion at the next junction and meandered through the leafy suburbs due South of the city. My alternative to the congested motorway gave us both a time for reflection and comparison. 

These were green-fields when I was here last, he said. 

It’s been a while, I sighed. What do you miss most?

I don’t know where to start, Pete said.

There’s a pen and paper in the glove box. 

I’m only here for a couple of days.

Why don’t you list your top ten, I said. 

Is this the start of an adventure?

You can tick them off during your visit.

#

I’d taken it for granted that Pete had kept in touch with his family in Britain and assumed he’d visited his them on a tight schedule and not had time to meet me. It never occurred to me he’d remained in Barcelona all along and hosted all their visits to Spain. Maybe it’s easier to find a spare room than take a flight home when you’re living in an exotic location. 

#

Do you fancy a drink?

The beer’s different in Spain. 

In what way, I asked.

It’s served cold for a start.

You don’t get bitter over there?

Not unless you go to an Irish bar, he said, biting his lip. 

Guinness isn’t the same thing, though.

Well, no, not really, I suppose that--- .

That’s stout, I said. You mean bitter, don’t you?

Right. He said, nodding. I’ll put it on the list.

We laughed out loud, as we compiled his bucket list. I can’t imagine going without a cooked breakfast for twenty-five years. No bacon and eggs? No Cumberland sausage and black pudding. Coleman’s mustard and Helman’s mayonnaise are always essential items in my household. Winkles and muscles I could live without. He missed popular BBC programmes like “Match Of The Day.” British full fat ice-cream and fresh cow milk we on the list; Pete was tired of the UHT substitute that’s available in Spain. There were more than ten things he missed; everyday items that I’d taken for granted living in London. 

#

I pulled over at a charming thatched pub with walls painted a pale shade of pastel blue and parked outside. Pete twisted his face as he inspected the straw on the roof and shook his head as though he’d seen a spaceship.

I think you need a pint, I said, slapping his back and chuckling.

I don’t remember what you call any of this stuff anymore, he said.

It’ll all come back to you, Pete.

I’m not staying long enough for that.

#

Pete stumbled forward as he ducked under the low ceiling beams and crashed down at a table by the window. A couple of pints of bitter, please, I said. The barman nodded at me and made a comment about Pete being lost or worse for wear. 

He’s all right, I said. He’s been away for a couple of decades. 

Inside you mean? He asked, narrowing his eyes and gauging whether I’d fallen into dangerous company. 

What? Oh no, I said, he’s been living in Spain. 

He nodded, scooped off the excess froth and topped up our drinks. Just as long as you don’t mean the other, he said, we don’t want no trouble here. 

I thanked him and carried our glasses to the window table.

I think I’ve become Spanish, Pete said.

Here, I said, take a sip of your bitter.

You know, I dream in Spanish now?

Another pint will sort that out.

I’ll drink to that, old friend.

Cheers anyway, I said,

Good health, he said.

It’ll all come back again.

It’s going to take time.

One down, nine to go.

The End