The lines connecting this landmark to that begin to fill in. I am the spider who, having cast a first thread into the wind, having that thread carried by the wind to a neighboring tree limb or ledge, adds with patience effort those radial spokes that construct his web. Then the outward spiral begins, and the zig-zag connection of this strand to that. Welcome to my lair! (don’t get stuck)

The external map of the world grows with each day’s adventure. Meanwhile, another map takes shape, as the mind reaches out to touch the names of people and places, the objects that they own or contain, and the verbs and other words that join them together in their lively dance, from sunrise to sunrise.

In the same way, the espejo, the mirall, the mirror of the world reflects back the outline of a new European – to be politically, locally correct, Catalonian – identity. Usted es Argentino? Aha, at least I was localized in a Latin American country! Or, steadfastly addressed in English, though I hadn’t said a word, some aspect of style or movement, posture or presence labeling me American to the trained eye of one who lives by the tourist trade. Or the coffee merchant whose Spanish is as stilted as my own, perhaps even more so: I say, “All right, English it is.”

– Where are you from?

– America, or Brazil (shrugging, gesturing broadly). Here.

– People are from everywhere nowadays. Barcelona is a city of the world.

– You’re not from Spain. Spoken as a statement, not a question.

– Romania!

– Really? People are from everywhere.

He nods. They have no decaf. No one asks for decaf, maybe one or two people a week. I think of the low cost of fine wine, the tobacconists every few blocks with their brisk trade is stimulant/relaxants, and a culture less deluded, perhaps, that they will or can live forever. His shelves are lined with Nomad Coffee Production’s product (“Bloody Good Coffee”), a roaster around the corner whose native Catalonian owner spent a few years learning the trade in London.

– You buy from Nomad?

– Sure. We’ll get some decaf in on Monday; come back?

– Of course. Lovely place. My esposa [“Really, wife is such an unequal word” – CR] is from Colombia, and will appreciate your place and your caffeine better than my poor heart.

– Great! Adéu.

– Merci. Adéu.

The map of the world. What language are we speaking? Catalá, the regional language whose roots are parallel to and sourced in French, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Italian. The mirror reflects a man whose home was Minnesota, but whose architecture grew beyond those borders; beyond the western world and back again; south of the border, north of the border.

What border? The borders have been erased, or never existed: it is only those who crave power or wealth that draw lines around things, like infant children, and shout Mine! But it is not theirs, nothing we can hold in these temporal hands is ours; while everything we experience, learn, speak and give to the world, yes, that we own, and that is what names us.

Coração Vagabundo – by Caetano Veloso, perf João Gilberto

 “Mother Earth” by JosCos @ DeviantArt.com

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