Casa dels vents
When the sun rises the wind rises, mostly from the sea slightly acrid and full of the tide, sometimes from the land laden with dust and a broad swath of heat, in either direction pouring into and over Barcelona, east-to-west or west-to-east, breathing in or breathing out.
At street level there are pedestrians and cars, the pungent aroma of century-old sewers, the sycamores’ daily fall of leaves, and still air. Walk up a couple of flights, and the atmosphere lifts with you, tourism gives way to neighborhood (Sr. Carles and his little dog on the second floor, the acid-rock teen on the third, the divorcée and her daughters on the fourth, the colombiana next door). You meet them at the door of the tiny elevator, where they smile and wave and turn away to walk down to the street; you meet them with their bags and boxes and baby strollers, with their garbage bags and umbrellas; and you meet them in their quiet or loud domesticity, the bellowed phone calls to hard-of-hearing relatives, a raucous chorus of feliç aniversari to a friend or family member, the deep silence of all these families sleeping during a personally restless night.
Here in the ático of Pujades 180, we seem to have flown through the clouds – vertically and temporally – to touch down in a land of constant breezes: with the kitchen and washroom windows wide seaside, and the sliding terrace door open inland, the lungs of Mediterranean send a constant, cool breeze through our rooms. On the stillest days there is still a whisper of wind, that gains intensity during the day, and blows itself out at night, like a candle, phooof!
If one makes comparison, I suppose there are finer terraces, and larger homes: comparison the thief of happiness. One can also look in both directions – the glass empty of water full of air, or light, or hope – and I can recall the many apartments we visited with their minor or major drawbacks. Remember the five bedroom expanse overlooking the dirty cement courtyard to one side, and the major highway to the other, with all of its walls painted black? Remember the building with the Escher stairways, like a Terry Gilliam film shot on the Upper West Side (space so small tables folded out of the wall, and traffic lights were needed to navigate the hallways)?
An especially delicious gust of wind just blew through my office space, urging me to forget them all, larger or smaller, finer or poorer, and drink in this sea air while I swim in it, and enjoy this space while I live in it.
A few days back, we unpacked a wedding present from my aunt in Montana: a set of Stradivarius Wind Chimes that had been tuned to the most singular tones and gracious chords. My daughter brought them in her luggage when she came to visit, and we tried a few less fortunate locations before discovering that the best place was in fact inside the house. They are ringing gently as I type, tucked in the perfect corner of the Billy Room (where the Ikea armoire, sold as “Billy” found a home), in the breeze that sings all day, and sleeps at night. What a delight.
We can hear the chimes on the leeward side of the house, like church bells, as we celebrate a visit or a holiday or some small success like royals, with candlelight and pipes and pomp fit for the kings and the queens of the House of the Winds.
