Missing

Saturday is my holy day. No matter what happens, I refuse to work unless I do it out of joy -something which lately has been quite common, mostly because of the absence of deadlines-. And as any holy day, my Saturday mornings follow a ritual, whose customary character can only be disturbed by extreme weather conditions or over-consumption of alcohol on Friday night.

So, any given Saturday after having breakfast, I start my morning walk rambleando (a term I initially thought to have invented myself until Juan Goytisolo wrote the best piece about it in today's Babelia). Ramblear simply means taking a stroll down -or in my case up- the Rambla, a walk which as Goytisolo may confirm is probably as unique as the Rambla itself. Of course, some may argue that it is quite impossible to conduct a proper rambleo during a sunny Saturday morning, or in fact any Saturday morning, given the flocks of tourists, children, crazy bikers, skaters, madmen and other members of Barcelona's stable I am probably forgetting. They are right to some extent, but my Saturday's rambleo is usually too short to be perturbed by them. At the hight of Escudellers I always turn right towards Plaza George Orwell, (or as it is better known Plaza Tripi). There in the quietness of one of the Gothic Quarter's inner patios I can apply myself to my favourite leisure activity. Looking for old books.

You see in the middle of the Tripi, there were always stalls of booksellers, with a great variety of old books, good books, first editions, in many different languages. Most of all there is good company, as the booksellers themselves are real booklovers. The lady in the photo is one of them. I have spoken with her more than once. She's very polite and generous and kind, always by the side of her stall to recommend a good read, in between two whiffs of her pipe. I do not know her name, but I 've talked with her about many books, her country, Uruguay, and my favourite Uruguayans, Eduardo Galeano and Juan Carlos Onetti, my country and her favourites Sophokles and Euripides. We have also talked about her exile, how she ended up in Barcelona, how much she likes it here even if she misses home. I felt I have grown to know her a bit, even if many times I may just pass by her saying "Hola", when I see her busy or when I don't feel like talking too much (she can be a bit too much of a talker even for a chatterer like myself).

But that all was until last weekend. Since then, the old lady with the pipe has vanished. She disappeared alongside her stall with first editions of Marques. As did the rest of the booksellers of Tripi and their stalls and their Saramagos, Onettis, Fuentes, Camus and Faulkners. They are simply not there anymore.

Which means, my Saturday literary ritual will remain suspended until further notice.