Wheeling Ry's luggage and attempting to control the contortions of an over excited hound, they crossed the square and parked themselves at one of dozens of of tables outside the Cafe Zurich at the top of the Ramblas, where Ry confidently ordered "dos canas y un aqua sin gas" though he rather spoiled the effect by explaining to the waiter that the agua was for "El Big Dog" All the same, Sergi was impressed by his friend's grasp of the local idiom. "They say Pillow Talk is the best way to master a foreign tongue" said Ry. "So who've you been sharing a pillow with, lately? I haven't even seen you in four months.
And whose foreign tongue have you been mastering, come to that?"
Ry kissed Sergi provocatively on the lips. He reckoned this was the kind of sophisticated thing you could do in Barcelona. And in public.
Peruvian musicians serenaded them, a clown hovered over their table, miming their actions for the amusement of the crowd - until Rubbish intervened. A sullen and inept juggler argued with them about the meagre coin they'd put in his hat, so they took it back. Then they headed down La Rambla, past the flower stalls, the live animal kiosks, the dice tricksters and the human statues, those seemingly lifeless representations of everyone from Michael Jackson to Cleopatra. The splendid old Boqueria Market was dark and deserted. An audience leaving the Liceu Opera House sauntered into nearby restaurants and bars, as the boys headed for Sergi's favourite part of town, el Born. This venerable quarter of the Old City, traditionally echoed to the sound of upmarket buskers, playing classical guitar. But tonight, the atmosphere was different. Ominous, even. Roads were closed off and searchlights scanned rooftops. It wasn't a Terrorist Alert, though.
Woody Allen was in town.