Long stopover in Barcelona

Ever since devouring Carlos Ruiz Zafón's cycle of four novels revolving around the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, I've wanted to make a tour of the locations. Years ago, I had purchased a small guide book with several routes and finally the day had come to put it to use.

My hostel was in the Gothic Quarter and thus the perfect starting point to immerse myself in the world of Daniel Sempere and Julián Carax. The gloomy and wet weather actually helped set the right mood as I roamed the city searching for the Sempere bookstore (in reality a glove shop) and the infamous 4 Gats Restaurant.

Was that Fermín lurking in the shadows under the Pont de Bisbe? Did I catch a glimpse of Nuria Monfort behind one of the curtained windows of Plaza de San Felipe Neri? (Fun detail: the name was actually corrected to Plaza Nuria Monfort by a grafitti artist - unfortunately this photo was lost in the Great Cellphone Malfunctioning and couldn't be recovered).

Finally, the book guided me through an inconspicuous archway off the Ramblas, through a sketchy alley to a barren lot surrounded by houses with crumbling facades. Feeling a bit uneasy, I was about to turn on my heel to skedaddle right back to the lively main street where Moroccans were celebrating their victory in today's World Cup Soccer match with a parade of fireworks, music and dancing.

But then a group of people turned the corner, planted itself right at the fence of the barren lot and as the sounds of the celebration seemed to fade further into the silence of this gloomy neighborhood, one of them opened a book, reading the passage where Daniel Sempere was guided by his father through that very same archway and sketchy alley to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books:

"Las calles aún languidecían entre neblinas y serenos cuando salimos al portal. Las
farolas de las Ramblas dibujaban una avenida de vapor, parpadeando al tiempo que la
ciudad se desperezaba y se desprendía de su disfraz de acuarela. Al llegar a la calle Arco
del Teatro nos aventuramos camino del Raval bajo la arcada que prometía una bóveda de
bruma azul. Seguí a mi padre a través de aquel camino angosto, más cicatriz que calle,
hasta que el reluz de la Rambla se perdió a nuestras espaldas. La claridad del amanecer se filtraba desde balcones y cornisas en soplos de luz sesgada que no llegaban a rozar el suelo.
Finalmente, mi padre se detuvo frente a un portón de madera labrada ennegrecido por el tiempo y la humedad. Frente a nosotros se alzaba lo que me pareció el cadáver abandonado de un palacio, o un museo de ecos y sombras."Meer informatie