The Chilean Bar

There is a wee Chilean bar at the bottom of the Rambla de Raval. It doesn't even have a name. The door is just wattle strapped together and covered with some sort of dark grass, and the shutter is always half-open. When you enter it is a bit like going into someone's kitchen, with it's white glass door, and the fridge with its donkey sticker greeting you at the entrance. Julie and I always home-in on the green couch and usually it is the musician we dislodge. He sits on a stool instead with his curly hair and beard and short forehead, face and cheekbones scrunched slightly due to the complexity of the song and his poor neglected bum. He plays songs from Cuba mainly, as well as other Latin-sounding tunes. He scrapes his witching nails over the strings of his thin-bodied guitar and sings in a strong voice with hints of trills.

We drink wine with strawberries. Or at least I do. Julie has a cold and is not in the mood, but usually would. There is a mannequin leg sitting looking at me and so I take her and christen her Janice. After the bint from British Airways that Julie sometimes speaks to and dislikes. Actually Janice doesn't really bother me so much. But this leg is thinner than my arm. In fact, the leg is shaped very like my arm, only fatter in the thigh and of course it has a foot, not a hand, on the end. I make Janice a pair of pink lips from the multicoloured chocolate pad in my bag. I give her post-it eyes, that flutter gently like beautiful scarily-yellow lashes.

The wine goes straight to my head and I am a bit nervous so I drink my beer quickly too. Slouched back into the couch, semi-facing each other, somewhere my head is wondering if people feel like I am full of myself and I feel I should try and make it clear I am not looking for attention or thinking i'm great. The owner gives us kisses and they all stand and smile and greet us when we enter. Julie and I are amused and I guess relieved that this times we are not the only women. Only because too much male attention is too good a thing.

To be honest though, I never notice when I am the only female. The only reason I would notice is because I feel comfortable, at ease. I am used to it. I am only the boy in the corner making silly jokes and getting on with whatever we are doing. Women confuse and confound me. But tonight it is no problem. We all just sit and listen, and I play with the leg.

The toilet is the only proper source of light in this bar. The door is wattle also, and the lock a keyring that you loop over a nail. There is an adequate gap on either side and above and below that should someone want to watch you make a deposit, all they have to do is shift their chair slightly. The light has a big sign with an arrow declaiming proudly "LUZ->" Of course, since it is so dark you can't see the sign unless the light is already on. One of many quirks that make me smile. Another is the shelf facing my couch. Under the shelf is another couch, and that is where girl number 3 sits and watches. Above, the shelf is filled with stools piled artistically on top of on another, and there is a tape recorder and some masks hanging off the wall. I wonder when they have bands in, do the bands play on the shelf? It certainly looks that way.

We are all aware of the neighbors, as we discuss what time to finish as though we are family. A joint passes round and it is like a big sitting room. There is no paint on the walls, all the furniture is straight off the street. There is never anyone here, but Julie says it is only when I am there. How do they make money though? I often wonder this about places in Barcelona. But now I am in Chile, the poverty is Chileno poverty, not unlike the poverty I know from my youth. I love it here and am loathe to leave. I sing a few songs, not too many to appear arrogant, and then pay for my drinks. More kisses and waves and well-wishes. The leg has to stay. Oh. I put it on the counter, disappointed. Big smiles all round, and we head off into the night.