Barcelona, 1978–1980 Patrick Kehoe (bio) My Barcelona is a kind of pre-lapsarian one in my own eyes, a pre-lapsarian, pre-budget flight city. In 1980 there occurred the "lapse" of sorts—or should that be the lapse "out of sorts"?—when I finally left the city after two years. Thus concluded a shiftless, insecure period of living with little money, in flats and small hotels. I was obliged to lodge too far from the city at one point early on, feeling removed from the action in the small town of Sant Cugat. Situated due northwest of the teeming city, Sant Cugat was a provincial town, about an hour's train ride from Barcelona. The place was evolving into the much bigger dormitory town it would eventually be in years to come. There was nothing there for a young Irishman, interested in craic, distraction, or finding women who might be "asked out," as the phrase of the times had it. June 1980 saw the end of the English classes I taught sometimes early in the morning, in the long stretches of the afternoon, or late at night. It had been an erratic pattern, shoehorned around people's working lives or children's afterschool hours. I still think of the underground trains that got me around, that dusty, trapped smell in the air when you stepped down the stairs in Fontana, Hospitalet, or Entenza. The carriages were not the soundless, clean-fuel trains of today. Where are the working men in the short-sleeved shirts reeking of garlic and black tobacco, hanging from the handrail, exuding decent sweat? Their places have been taken by tourists and visitors from every country you could imagine. To discount that pre-lapsarian theme a bit, one, of course, could not compare my Barcelona experience to Eden. However, memory and imagination are great mood enhancers. There was, in any case, something of Eden about the city anyway, and a sense of banishment, anguish, and strangeness when it was time to go. I was going back to Ireland; I was back where I started with what I thought at the time was little to show for it. A new poem of mine, which features in the current edition of Cyphers magazine, is simply called "Banishment." I left the city voluntarily, sure, but I sometimes feel that the city banished me for reasons that need not be gone into. Banishment or not—and the usage has featured in previous poems, like a thorn—the city has stayed in my mind, coming and going faithfully, obsessively. [End Page 151] Its presence has, for a decade or more of recent poetry writing, been like a vast net. I have been seeking memory fish that have circulated in the net of my imagination, captured in the mesh of the poems. I remember weekend nights on the town in a city that, despite its iconoclastic air of kicking against the post-Francoist traces, seemed provincial. At that period, the tourists generally came only between May and October. During the other months, the city seemed to draw in and recover its jaunty, brazen spirit. I remember in particular walking down Calle Pelayo one weekend night in spring, feeling an air of anticipation, a sense of heat in the pavement slabs, the sultry evening opening out, the prospect of company further on. Making my way down the Ramblas, to eventually cut off into a side street and meet a few friends at one of the bars, Paraguas or El Portalón. To proceed on later maybe to other nightspots, the nightclub Celeste, those evenings almost erased now, just the vaguest glimmer of being young and active and busy-minded. My poems try to celebrate where we stood, laughed, drank, sang. Or they attempt to fill the gaps and seat us few Irishmen again on empty benches or chairs. None of us were writers; I had given up poetry during that period, although I tried to learn flamenco guitar at a music school. I still have that lightweight guitar, smelling hopefully still of rosewood and cedar. I recall my teacher Luis Verdú, who came originally from Córdoba in Andalucia. Luis, a kindly...