In Praise of Secondhand Smoke

A view of Barcelona from Montjuic

Sometimes one of the best ways to while away some time is with juice of the roasted bean. So there I was sitting in a little cafe mid morning in downtown Barcelona. I was nursing a cafe con leche, the Spanish equivalent of a latte except that a latte is made with espresso. Actually, cafe con leche is a misnomer. The would be the Spanish term. The correct term is cafe amb llet. The Barcelonians are adamant about not being called a Spaniards.  The desk clerk at our hotel made a joke when he gave us the password for WIFI. He said the password was “12345678” so Spanish men would remember it.  I was enjoying my hot beverage while my significant other, AKA wife, was reconnoitering the area to determine which bus to take to Montjuic.

It was a beautiful day on Placa de Braus Monumental. It seems the sun in Spain is brighter or more brilliant than other places in the world. I gazed over the nine tables on the sidewalk under the canopy. There weren't many people there except me and a couple of young folks too much involved with each other than to notice what was going on around them. I was sitting at the middle table facing the bus stop. It was across the street from the shopping mall that had once been a bullring. It mirrored the one in Madrid except the one in Madrid was still used for its intended purpose.  Two young women entered the cafe and sat at the table next to me. Apparently they were shopping as evidenced their packages. They were well dressed and quite attractive. As a connoisseur of feminine pulchritude I took interest.  The woman next to me was a real beauty and dressed to the nines. Her dark hair was pulled back and tied with a silk scarf. She had dark doe eyes, a straight nose and a smile on her lips that could melt the entire continent of Antarctica.  I was so intent in my observation that I took a sip of my cafe amb llet and burned my tongue. What happened next caught me by surprise. From a rather large leather handbag she retrieved a small container.  It blue enamel with a floral pattern. The size and shape was that of an Altoid tin.  Actually, what really surprised me was when she pulled a book of cigarette rolling papers from her bag. I recognized them easily. Once, when I worked at a convenience store next to a clothing outlet, rolling paper sales would skyrocket every time the store would get a shipment of clothing from Central America.I could make a pretty good guess as to what was in the enamelled tin. The beautifully manicured hands expertly fashioned the marijuana cigarette right before my eyes while she carried on a lively conversation with her friend. She was good, but not quite as fast as my grandpa. He could roll a cigarette of Prince Albert pipe tobacco one-handed. Rolling a joint in broad daylight was illegal. One would think.  I have an inquiring mind and wanted to know. So, I asked Mr. Google what the law in Barcelona said about marijuana. Açcording to Google public smoking of cannabis is illegal. This new knowledge surprised me since I was witnessing the law being broken within three feet of my table! As I sat there befuddled and inhaling the secondhand smoke of what Jim Stafford referred to as the wildwood weed, I suddenly realized the location of the cafe. A dozen feet in front of me a policewoman had apprehended a lawbreaker. But not the young lady in the cafe indulging in recreational drug use. The villain was a cyclist pedaling along the sidewalk. Due to my keen interest in the activities in the sidewalk cafe, I had not realized that the cafe was next to the police station.  Before I had a chance to observe more of local law enforcement, Claudette returned and we were off to Montjuic.

As I settled back in my seat I wondered if I had witnessed a preview of things to come back home in beautiful downtown Charleston.