The Unwelcome Guests Dogs, Parrot, and a bit of Altitude Sickness by El Staff

Perched precariously on a small strip of land between Ronda de Dalt and the vast hill that separates Barcelona from Sant Cugat and Cerdanyola, upper Guineueta is not unlike a frontier post taut with the tension inspired by dubious permanence. Despite all the normal indicators of an established community (housing, a school, shops, bars), there’s a rigid alertness in the air, as though at any moment the residents might have cause to draw and fight. And, like many deep-sea creatures whose bizarre physical defense mechanisms help guard their territory against invaders, this neighborhood is protected from all but the most determined of visitors by its topography. When we emerged from the metro at Via Júlia, there was nowhere to go but up.

Evidently, it’s not just our tar-lined lungs that balk at the hill’s gradient. Midway up Carrer de les Torres, by default the main artery of the neighborhood, we came upon an outdoor public elevator. To be more precise, two elevators, connected to each other by metal walkways. The glass-and-chrome structures service the residents of the highest elevations, and unintentionally are something like a tourist attraction; a poor man’s Space Needle. Suspended between the uninspiring architecture of the lower streets and the dark recesses of the upper, the entirety of eastern Barcelona pulsing with a glittering force below, one feels frozen outside time, paralyzed in a space which is neither city nor country, ground nor sky.

The elevators take you as far as Carrer de Rodrigo Caro, named for a Sevillian poet, historian, archeologist and lawyer of the 16th - 17th centuries. The choice of name is uncannily appropriate, given that the author of “Canción a las ruinas de Itálica” now lies immediately below a makeshift housing complex reminiscent of a rancho in a Caracas barrio. The higher we climbed, the more menacing and insistent the barking of roofterrace dogs and more deserted the accessways became. Apartments on either side of the stairs and sidewalks were so close that they recalled the displays of an insect zoo, their windows an entree to the most personal of vignettes. The wild grass park at the top of the hill is held in place by a concrete retaining wall covered with elaborate graffiti pieces whose artists obviously had no cause to fear being run off by police before they could finish their work. During the daytime, the park might be a lovely place for a picnic and a little afternoon bombing, but at night the feeling that hidden eyes are watching you inspires a bit of paranoia. When we came around a dark corner to find several teenagers surreptitiously rifling through plastic bags, we began to feel a bit like we were trespassing. The sensation was heightened when we noticed that the residents of the makeshift apartment building, no doubt emboldened by their home’s remoteness and the paucity of passers-by, had expanded the city map themselves, with a hastily-painted “Calle Lloberas No. 1” on the wall between two buildings. Before one of us could be spirited off into the darkness, never to return again, we decided to test the endurance of our hamstrings and head back down the hundreds of stairs to Calle Torres.

The trip downhill didn’t really alleviate our sense of disquiet. The anxiety might have stemmed from our hunger, or from the occasional aural assaults perpetrated by drivers with their windows down and their music blaring, but we were in need of some relief, and fast. We found it at Bar Las Torres. Though we hesitated outside for a few minutes, put off by the thick smell of grease and a picture of what looked like frozen pizza, we were served truly delicious pollo a la brasa with raita and yogurt. The cook, who had spent eight years living near Düsseldorf before coming to Barcelona, was ecstatic to speak a little German and implored us to come back soon. He offered us free chupitos as a gesture of goodwill, and we settled on some unmemorable liqueur after his sad disclosure that he didn’t know what orujo de hierbas was.

Though we were grateful for the free shots, excellent food and good company, it’s hard to set a precise date of return. As we traversed the side streets looking for a decent bar, it became clear that perhaps the locals were too local. Each bar had approximately four patrons and, though it could have been a figment of our imagination, they looked anything but prepared to welcome strangers. While no one actually bared their teeth, they all turned in unison and stared when we looked as though we might dare to enter. We finally settled on a place with non-fluorescent lighting and a squawking parrot in the corner who would not go to sleep. He was probably telling us to get the fuck out.