El Café de las 2

Ronda de Sant Pere, 43
08010 Barcelona
Spain
+34 932 65 78 14

by Beau Cadiyo

At this time, in this political climate, I'm going to write something here that I never thought I'd be writing:

I'm really impressed with American politicians.

When American politicians believe in something - or they're paid enough to believe in it - they fight for it.  They argue.  They hustle.  They lobby.  They press.  They count votes and manoeuvre through whatever legislative body they have to work with to get it passed, or squashed, and if the odds are long, they keep on pushing until they either win or lose, and even if they lose, they will vow to stay around and fight another day.  When an American politician wants something done, they stand up, take the gloves off, and start swinging.

However.

In Britain, when a politician really believes in something that's unpopular, they sit down.  They quit.  They sometimes make up some excuse, like they want to spend more time with family, or they have a newfound interest in beekeeping, but when the going gets tough, a British politician will do everything they can to avoid getting going.

Ruth Davidson.
Amber Rudd.
Phillip Lee.
Sarah Wollaston.
Justine Greening.
Jo Johnson.
That's just in the last few weeks, and doesn't take into account, say, the Theresa May debacle. 

I don't understand it, and I haven't met a single British person who can explain to me why bailing out is such a better option than standing up for what you believe in.  I hate the way America is going, but I have profound respect for politicians who fight for what they truly believe in - no matter how stupid and pro-Trump they are.

Sigh.  Again, I never thought I'd get to this point.  But it's a strange time in the world.

A long time ago, someone pointed out to me that the reason we say "Bon Apetit" is that there is no satisfactory equivalent to that phrase in English.  "Eat Well!" or "Good eating!" just doesn't capture the same spirit - or, perhaps, upon attempts, we in the Anglophone world just decided that most of the food in our hemisphere isn't all that good compared to our Latin counterparts, so we went with their phrase because "good appetite" just...well, didn't apply to boiled vegetables and salt beef.

And I wonder if perhaps "goodbye" and its equivalents are similar.  Once, when I was 15, a girl that I was in love with wrote me a letter that had an air of implicit finality about it.  She signed it, "Fare thee well," and, knowing how big a Dylan fan she was, and that I'd sort of bungled some things, I remembered that "Goodbye is too good a word, babe," and I've always said that when a parting was bittersweet and forever.

The Latinate equivalents are similar - "To God."  Adios.  Adieu.  Addio.  I don't know if I will ever see you again.  If it's God's will, I will.  Or not.  Or, perhaps, it means that if one of us dies before we meet again, I commend your soul to heaven.  I imagine I could spend five minutes looking up the origins and interpretations of these words, but I'm finding it more fun to think about the possibilities, to speculate, which is something that we do far too little of in this day of instant informational gratification.

The first time I was in El Cafe de las 2, it was 6:30 a.m. and I hadn't showered in what felt like a week and I was wearing my son in a sling on my front.  Five months old, cute as a fucking button, with a little turned-up nose, blond hair, blue eyes, rosy cheeks, a thousand-watt smile, the whole shebang.  He was wide awake, and I had left the hotel to give my wife an hour or two of solid sleep.  We had wandered through dimly lit streets, deserted and empty, stumbling through church squares, passing drunks in doorways, smelling the early-morning smell of Barcelona on a weekday before the lights start coming on in windows and the cars start plowing down the avenues.  It was the only cafe open, it seemed, and when we walked in, two men were engaged in a heated but very, very quiet conversation at the counter; they both looked up to see if I was someone who needed to be paid attention to, then went back to their conversation, guarding their words.  The woman behind the counter, the owner, greeted me with a smile, and then waved at Daniel on my chest, who smiled back and jigged his arms and legs up and down in excitement, and I wondered if, like Gatsby, he was discovering that people like him when he smiles, because he does it an awful lot, and an awful lot of people are captivated by him.  I'm not being biased, I'm just reporting.  The men, hearing my accent, relax.  A bit.

So I order a croissant amb chocolate and a cortado.  She hands it over the counter and I start eating, savoring the dark chocolate melted on the ends, the flakiness of the crust.  Daniel just looks, I suppose - his face was away from me.  The men keep talking.  Minutes pass.  A man comes in and out - the owner's husband, perhaps - tidying up the newspapers, sweeping the sidewalk.  It's quiet, and peaceful, the kind of peace that you don't usually get in Barcelona, or any big city, with a silent street, tree leaves rustling in the pre-autumn wind, and a world waking up.

I look at the front door,

and something smashes on the floor, glass shards spraying everywhere, and I think that the men who were talking MUST have been gangsters, and there was a hit, a real hit, the kind you read about, and I don't know how to react, because I feel fully confident in being able to fight hand-to-hand against someone, but I don't have a gun or knife or anything to defend myself against assassins trying to kill two guys next to me at a counter.

Looking down, my croissant bits are lying in a pool of glass on the floor.  Daniel is staring down at them, completely relaxed.  I quickly realize that he'd reached over, pulled the plate down, and it had shattered on my feet.  Luckily I wasn't in flip flops.

"Daniel!" I say, hoping that my tone expresses my disapproval to the other patrons and the owner while not scarring his psyche forever, hoping that he doesn't actually understand what has happened.  The woman says something and the man mutters and comes over, reaching into a cabinet for a broom and a dustpan and starts sweeping up.  The men have left money on the counter and are walking out into the night.  I have no idea who they were - gangsters?  Union leaders?  Politicians?  All three? - but the woman doesn't seem too sorry to see them go.  She coos at Daniel when we leave, and refuses to let me pay for the broken plate.

So I go back.  Every morning.

This is the sort of cafe that tourist guides want to find and exploit.  It has an owner who doesn't seem to speak much English, and a female owner at that in a country where most cafes seem to be owned by men.  It is brightly lit, with big windows and wood-panelling, and it is frequented by locals, with three newspapers on the counter for anyone who walks in.  It has strong coffee from a gorgeous machine, and a menu written on chalk boards with seemingly varying prices, and much of the food seems to be made on-site.  The croissants are amazing - I had several - and the bocadillos de tortilla de patata are among the best I've ever had.  People say Bom Dia when they walk in.

Perhaps this review will help it get on the tourist track; perhaps the Lonely Planet will start recommending it.  I have mixed feelings about that; in my mind, she clearly deserves business, not just for kindness to a fatigued American with an infant who likes to grab things and throw them on the floor, but for a superior product.

When I left on the last morning, two bocadillos and a croissant in my hands, I said "adéu" to the woman.  She said it back, and gracias, and as I turned to the sidewalk I wondered if it really was goodbye - if I'd never see her again.  I hope that's not the case; I hope her business thrives despite being in a competitive environment, and that, simultaneously, when I go back at 6:30 in the morning the next time I'm in Barcelona, she remembers me, and Daniel, and smiles and waves at him no matter how big he is.

But if I never see her again, I hope she succeeds, with God's help.

I hope Boris Johnson and the conservative party fail miserably, though, in their attempts to get out of the European Union.