It rains, at last. It rains only a little, but at least it rains, in this winter without snow and without rain, prolog of a great drought. It rains about the gray coats. It rains about the naked trees of the Rambla. And about the chilabas, the turbans, the burkes and the multicolor cloth of the South Americans. It rains about the drunken Anglo-Saxon tourists and about the Japanese dazzled by the city in fashion. It rains on the Rambla and the rain that twins all of them opens us the eyes to the universal brotherhood, to the where really we are, to the new social face of the European cities.
By child, I went down for the Rambla of the hand of the grandfather. Everybody greeted for us: the waiters, the shop assistants, the florists, the poor people. Now, I’m old, any more I do not know where we are. I’m orphan. The stages of the childhood have been erased. Everybody has died or has emigrated, substituted for other that have arrived or are from step. The trees remain, as long as we go down to the Liceu. Look! the canopy of the Liceu.
Ah!, the canopy of the Liceu is the occidental civilization. Already we are there. We pierce the porch. We raise the carpeted stair. We turn to the room of the mirrors for the right stretch to access. Nobody smokes here any more, now. But on the walls, above the mirrors and the door of the Cercle, the inscriptions continue being the same, like in the childhood: "The art hasn’t patria". Yes, already we are at home.
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