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. ‘We knew we would like you! And do you smoke weed?’ I said yes, I had been known to smoke weed. ‘Come and look at this, man,’ he said. Pedro led me into his and Lucinda’s bedroom — which I was welcome to use at any time, he said, and for whatever purpose — and he showed me about three ounces of skunk in a wooden box. He gathered up a handful of buds, pressed them to his face, inhaled exultantly, and invited me to do the same. Then he set about rolling a joint.
He made the spliff with tremendous love and care but the completed item was surprisingly lopsided. Before he lit it, we agreed that perhaps it was best if we first sorted out payment and key allocation. So we did that.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in