Low life | 23 February 2017

I stepped off the train in Barcelona at 7.30 in the evening and followed directions to the hostel. The February night air felt almost balmy. I found the street easily enough — a busy thoroughfare of bars and independent shops. The hostel entrance was an ancient door in the wall. Next to it was a button to press before speaking. The door swung open to reveal a glorious marbled and tiled entrance hall with an old-fashioned cage elevator that had ceased going up and down a long time ago. Marble and tile continued all the way to the top. The hostel manager and his girlfriend were leaning over the stairwell to guide and welcome me.

He was called Pedro and she was called Lucinda. They’d liked the sound of my voice when I buzzed up to be admitted, they said. Did I smoke? Yes, I said. I did. The manager was triumphant.