Flower rain

by Blanca Arteaga (Mexico)

I didn't expect to find Spain

There are certain cities that have over people the same effect as a magnet, it can be a city thousands of kilometers away and suddenly, for no apparent reason, one day, in front of us, that city appears as a photograph in an encyclopedia or as part of a foreign conversation heard when crossing a street. And also exist that people who are called by those cities, those who can hear them without having known the sound of their voices, those who think of them every time they dream. Probably we do not understand how these dreams appear in our life, how it is that they gradually take over the most forgotten corners of our mind, but what is certain is that one day, they are already part of us. In my case, for a long time I was listening to the whisper of a distant voice that was calling me, I was just there, listening, without knowing the reason of it, without knowing what I could find, without understand why my heart was beating faster just imagining myself there, the voice of a city that has already been talked about a lot, but not everything has been said: Barcelona. So, when I could finally heed its call, without knowing very well why, I saw myself on an April’s afternoon walking through its streets in the clear spring light, filling my pupils with Gaudí's forms, with the modernist colors, with the mystery of the Gothic, with the voices and faces of so many strangers who, like me, were absorbed discovering the small surprises that the city gave us at every step. Suddenly, the wind began to blow, a yellow rain started to fall on all of us and we looked up trying to assimilate the magic episode of which we were witnessing. Until then I had not been able to notice the trees, silent guards so tall and green that filled the city, of course I had not noticed the thousands of yellow flowers hanging on their branches that the wind was throwing off like little pieces of a puzzle. But every rain has its consequences and the fragile rain of tiny yellow flowers soon began to bear fruit. We knew this by listening to the first sneeze, then the second and the third one and by the time I heard my own sneeze, I knew there was no turning back. And then, as if all the pedestrians had suffered the same spell, we began to sneeze again and again and again, streets and streets walking were still presenting the same scenario: the wind blowing, the rain of flowers falling and people without understanding what was happening but sneezing at unison. The seriousness of the faces was erased comically, the eyes closed, the half open mouth, some of them with disposable handkerchiefs drowned the noise of their noses and their mouths, others distracted of their thoughts stopped to observe the scene, some laughed because of the funny circumstances, others looked indifferent until someone else sneezed in front of them. The spreading was inevitable like a spring epidemic, the monotony of any given day became the best comic scene that any theater company could have interpret. A few moments later, the wind stopped but the sneezes continued for a few more minutes until there was none left, as if that day we had wasted all the sneezes in the world. Then life continued as usual, with the difference that on the streets of Barcelona a yellow carpet announced that an old spell had been pronounced on it. Barcelona, the enchanting city where yellow flowers rain.