past each familiar display, barely giving them a glance, and made a beeline for her favourite cheese stall further inside the market.
Today a woman with short hair manned the stall.
‘ Hola. Quisiera comprar …’ Mak began and scanned the latest offerings. She pointed at one of the hard sheep’s cheeses that looked appealing. ‘ Me gusta comprar un queso de oveja buena .’
The woman lifted the cheese out of the glass case and nodded, speaking in rapid, singsong Spanish, only half of which Mak could catch. She sliced off a small sliver and handed it across. ‘ Buena. ’
Mak nodded in agreement, tasting the sample. It was very good. Strong and nutty in flavour. She made a sign with her index finger and thumb to indicate approximately how much she wanted. The woman placed a knife over the block and Mak stopped her.
‘ Un poco ,’ she said and indicated a smaller amount.
The woman shifted the knife. ‘ ¿Tanto? ’
‘ Si. ’
‘ ¿Algo más? ’
‘ No. Es todo ,’ Mak replied. No. That is all.
She put the block of sheep’s cheese in her backpack and walked to the next stall, where she bought some penne pasta, fresh tomatoes and basil. On the way out of the market, she averted her eyes from the grim displays of whole pig’s ears and trotters, thick cow’s tongues, tripe layered and folded like fleshy curtains, and flayed whole sheep’s heads of all sizes — almost enough to make her a vegetarian again. She stopped at a popular stall that was literally overwhelmed with dozens of cured legs of jamón , ham, hanging from every available square inch of the display. They had particularly good jamón serrano , the famous dried hams, and the stall was always very busy. When the vendor was free she purchased a typical Catalan chorizo from him. He wrapped it up and she popped it in her bag and thanked him. She left the market and continued southeast down La Rambla, slinging the pack back over her shoulders once more, now heavy with her fixings for dinner.
Now, where is this place?
She wasn’t quite sure what to look for. What kind of a shop would it be? Surely no one advertised what she was seeking to buy. Would it be a private residence, perhaps? Luther’s address book did not make it entirely clear.
Only a couple of blocks down from the market, directly across from the famous Chinese dragon hanging over La Rambla, she found the entrance to Carrer de l’Hospital, a road she had not had reason to venture down before. It was still single lane, but this road was set between actual kerbs and was a little less narrow and winding, an indication of relative modernity compared with the opposite side of La Rambla, where every lane was twisting and medieval, barely able to take a car. Carrer de l’Hospital was hemmed in from the sidewalk by tall eighteenth-century terraces with flat roofs, each five or so storeys high, adorned with evenly spaced balconies of intricate wrought iron. Here, after only a few minutes, she felt a subtle change in atmosphere. Tourists came to this street, certainly — she could see several of them, and the presence of a money changer and some tiny tourist stalls indicated as much — but it seemed most foreigners did not venture too far from the attractions of La Rambla, and the area had not been gentrified. The rows of terraces grew a little more decrepit as she walked further from the main street: balconies rusted, laundry hung out in limp lines, flapping in the breeze. There was more graffiti here. Mak felt herself grow instinctively more alert to potential dangers. The area was slightly reminiscent of some of the more run-down streets of New Orleans’s French Quarter, she thought. She paused as she passed a lovely square with a large church built, as per the charming, typically Spanish habit, in two distinct eras. Part original Roman church, part eighteenth century, perhaps? It had five huge archways withwrought-iron gates across the front, beneath a flat-faced façade of
Today a woman with short hair manned the stall.
‘ Hola. Quisiera comprar …’ Mak began and scanned the latest offerings. She pointed at one of the hard sheep’s cheeses that looked appealing. ‘ Me gusta comprar un queso de oveja buena .’
The woman lifted the cheese out of the glass case and nodded, speaking in rapid, singsong Spanish, only half of which Mak could catch. She sliced off a small sliver and handed it across. ‘ Buena. ’
Mak nodded in agreement, tasting the sample. It was very good. Strong and nutty in flavour. She made a sign with her index finger and thumb to indicate approximately how much she wanted. The woman placed a knife over the block and Mak stopped her.
‘ Un poco ,’ she said and indicated a smaller amount.
The woman shifted the knife. ‘ ¿Tanto? ’
‘ Si. ’
‘ ¿Algo más? ’
‘ No. Es todo ,’ Mak replied. No. That is all.
She put the block of sheep’s cheese in her backpack and walked to the next stall, where she bought some penne pasta, fresh tomatoes and basil. On the way out of the market, she averted her eyes from the grim displays of whole pig’s ears and trotters, thick cow’s tongues, tripe layered and folded like fleshy curtains, and flayed whole sheep’s heads of all sizes — almost enough to make her a vegetarian again. She stopped at a popular stall that was literally overwhelmed with dozens of cured legs of jamón , ham, hanging from every available square inch of the display. They had particularly good jamón serrano , the famous dried hams, and the stall was always very busy. When the vendor was free she purchased a typical Catalan chorizo from him. He wrapped it up and she popped it in her bag and thanked him. She left the market and continued southeast down La Rambla, slinging the pack back over her shoulders once more, now heavy with her fixings for dinner.
Now, where is this place?
She wasn’t quite sure what to look for. What kind of a shop would it be? Surely no one advertised what she was seeking to buy. Would it be a private residence, perhaps? Luther’s address book did not make it entirely clear.
Only a couple of blocks down from the market, directly across from the famous Chinese dragon hanging over La Rambla, she found the entrance to Carrer de l’Hospital, a road she had not had reason to venture down before. It was still single lane, but this road was set between actual kerbs and was a little less narrow and winding, an indication of relative modernity compared with the opposite side of La Rambla, where every lane was twisting and medieval, barely able to take a car. Carrer de l’Hospital was hemmed in from the sidewalk by tall eighteenth-century terraces with flat roofs, each five or so storeys high, adorned with evenly spaced balconies of intricate wrought iron. Here, after only a few minutes, she felt a subtle change in atmosphere. Tourists came to this street, certainly — she could see several of them, and the presence of a money changer and some tiny tourist stalls indicated as much — but it seemed most foreigners did not venture too far from the attractions of La Rambla, and the area had not been gentrified. The rows of terraces grew a little more decrepit as she walked further from the main street: balconies rusted, laundry hung out in limp lines, flapping in the breeze. There was more graffiti here. Mak felt herself grow instinctively more alert to potential dangers. The area was slightly reminiscent of some of the more run-down streets of New Orleans’s French Quarter, she thought. She paused as she passed a lovely square with a large church built, as per the charming, typically Spanish habit, in two distinct eras. Part original Roman church, part eighteenth century, perhaps? It had five huge archways withwrought-iron gates across the front, beneath a flat-faced façade of
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