The Rambla is a good place to walk.
On this morning’s jaunt, I come across a table and chairs out in the surf waiting for bold action. The narrow path out to a concrete table and concrete chairs, in the midst of waves, turns into temptation.
Making sure my Passport is buttoned up, my cell phone is buttoned up, the keys to my hotel room are in my front shirt pocket, buttoned up, I take a side trip. The table looks inviting, surrounded by water, waves crashing to make a sound that drains out all other sounds.
It is shaky walking over metal planks that make the first part of the path. Water moves under me triggering thoughts of pirates walking the plank, or, as Long John Silver describes another punishment in “Treasure Island”, keel hauling.
Once over the iron bridge it is easy, just climbing a few stone algae covered steps and finishing by taking a seat at the little table.
If I were coming out again I would bring lunch and stay.
It is relaxing being in the eye of a hurricane.
This is what a conductor hears in front of an orchestra.
I am inside Alice’s rabbit hole.