On Sunday the Catalans pour into the streets in droves. They dress fashionably. Not like the American concept of Sunday clothes. But more like streets full of boutique mannequins. They dress to the nines, and not necessarily anything you'd see in church. They wear leather jackets. Their scarves are hand-knit by someone's grandmother in Kurdistan with a fashion label sewed in by ten-year-olds in the Philippines. The plaid lining of their baby-stroller (pram) matches or at least is coordinated with their outfit. They may stop in a sidewalk cafe for a while. Anywhere as long as they can be seen. But mostly they stroll down the wider streets or along the promenade that lines the beach. All ages and abilities. Everyone walks on Sunday. In family groups or clusters of friends. They chat and laugh. Spirits are always high unless it's bitter cold.
It is a time to see and be seen. To catch up on local gossip and family affairs. To socialize your dogs (and not clean up after them).
Today I can hear the street murmuring outside my window. My flat lies along the parade route. I have too much to do here around the house, but I too feel the pressure to go for a stroll. I'm underdressed for the weekly fashion show.
No comments:
Post a Comment