mmolyneux

On the back of Monica’s Harley Davidson, speeding through the centre of Barcelona at night, I feel myself come alive. Replaced by the coldness of the wind, I look out on the gaudy neons and Friday night laughter becoming a blur.

We had met earlier that day, sheltering from the rain in a church doorway, not knowing then that we would end the night together dancing hand-in-hand beneath the dawn coloured stars.

But first we head to the gothic part of the city where Monica’s heard there’s a jazz singer performing. The streets became darker and quite narrow as we arrive into a derelict neighbourhood where we are observed from several doorways. The house we entered is like the others on the street: crumbling wooden shutters, crumbling stone, iron balcony, dark. Inside there is a bright light and we walk into an old brick room with a polished wooden floor. A group of shadows are playing New Orleans jazz in the corner. People are swing dancing. We take two beers from the ice bucket and watch the paired silhouettes spin across the floor, tapping our feet, smiling at each other when the pianist takes a solo or one of the girls is flung into the air and everybody cheers.

Monica is sensitive but not shy and gets up to dance, choosing anyone, taking first their eye and then their hand. I get more drunk, noticing how her hips seem to loosen the more she dances. I also notice for the first time her bright almond-shaped eyes. We cut out to eat at a busy, brightly lit bar on the corner before riding off again in the wind. But instead of going home the night carries us down to the port where the low sound of the waves and the faint music of a distant radio keep us warm.

The kindness of strangers can often be overlooked and overwhelming; and the person sat next to you on the bus or in a rainy doorway might be the wisest person you’ll ever meet. For me, the woman with the almond-shaped eyes and the Harley Davidson was that wise, kind stranger.