The War is Not Over

La guerra no s’ha acabat, reads the graffiti above a mural of Catalan flags that dominates the alley. The war is not over. In this maze of Barcelona back streets, the mural serves as a breadcrumb on my trail to the plazas. I’m convinced these bustling neighborhood squares gather up their stone skirts every morning, fountains, stray dogs and all, and dance sardanes until they collapse in some new location by nightfall.
But no matter how far I wander, when I see that mural, I know where I am. Even now, at midnight on a Thursday, a roar of chatter sweeps over me as I round the corner. In typical European fashion, this alley barely wide enough for a bicycle is a main plaza entrance. A family of 4 brush past, coats zipped against the fall nip in the air.
The scent of frying falafel and sweet baklava dominates. You won’t find any Valencian paella or crema catalana here, where Barcelona’s large Pakistani population runs the shops.
You will, however, find the locals. I’ve asked a few about the mural. “What war?” Each has a different answer.
An old woman who streaked her white mullet blue says it’s the civil war. An anarchist punk with a Mohawk and a puppy named Satan insists it refers to Catalunyan oppression (which started long before Franco took over Spain).
“It’s the war against freedom,” says a tattooed bartender in heavily accented castellano (which is what you call español here if you don’t want a lecture about how España doesn’t speak one language). He pours me a cuba libre at the outdoor bar where dogs of every size wind between patrons’ legs. “For decades we were forbidden to fly our flag, even speak catalan, our language. We’re finally free and we’ll fight to stay that way.”
Suddenly the purple-haired businessmen and the gaudy Gaudí-style offices make sense. Catalunya is a country unto itself, Barcelona its capital. Its people are celebrating their right to party all night, douse their city in art and dress however the heck they want.
Me? I’m just glad to witness.