La Rambla

“Down there, in Majorca, on the Rambla I’ve seen lorries loaded with men pass by. They trundled along with a deafening sound, near the multicolour terraces, all clean, dripping wet, with the happy buzz of festivities. The lorries were grey from the road dust, just as the men were grey, sitting in rows of four, with their grey hats on sideways and their long hands on top of their cotton trousers, very sensibly. They would pick them up every evening in backwater villages, just as they were back from the land; they would embark on their final journey, with their shirt stuck to their shoulders with sweat, their arms full of the day’s work, leaving their soup on the table and a wife who got to the garden gate too late, out of breath, with a few belongings wrapped up in a new handkerchief: Adiós! Recuerdos!”