I don't want to leave, I don't want to leave, I don't want to leave, I don't want to leave, I don't want to leave, I don't want to leave, I don't want to leave this wonderful place that a man from Barcelona, forty years ago, designed for himself.
As I look out of the window at views of Barcelona unseen to me, I think of (the great) Hugh Hefner, and the September and October 1956 issues of Playboy magazine, U.S.A. edition. More than a place to hang his hat, a man dreams of his own domain, a place that is uniquely his own. I think also of Virginia Woolf... to write fiction a woman must have money and a room of her own. I think that one committed suicide by drowning herself by weighing herself down with stones, while another has been wearing a dressing gown for thirty years, surrounded by her granddaughters' friends... Life is truly unusual.
I make the most of the minutes I have left before finishing my first visit to the flat and walk slowly through the living room, the hallway full of cupboards with hidden shoe racks, the study with the Marcel Breuer chair, the bedroom for two (the usual ones, or not). Now I think of you who don't know this exists, single men and women, childless couples, expatriates, ESADE students, enlightened football players who renounce the garden ostentation of the periphery, women writers in search of seclusion and Balearic horizons, New Age yuppies, Lambretta POP stars, vinyls and Ronson lighters.
In you and me years ago.
