Evenings wandering Barcelona streets. That one place where we were told there were often four generations at once savoring the sumptuous hospitality, kids snaking through legs, under the feet of unhurried waiters. That one place, I forget the name. Jesus, I forget the owner's name too. That's not good. It was only seven years ago. I'm tempted to call him Juan Sebastian, but something about it just doesn't sit right. It could be close though. What does it matter now anyway? It'll come back to me. It'll come back.
The hospital cafeteria, I'm told, is the place to get a quick bite to eat, if you didn't bring anything with you and you don't want to go in to town on your lunch break. I order a sandwich to go, sit down and wait. At the next table, a white haired woman comes in and joins two others, one of whom she knows, the other she's introduced to. She orders a salad sandwich and a flat white, takes off her coat, sits down. The place is small so you can pretty much hear any voice that's above a whisper, and so three women together poses no problem, or even offers any other option but to hear what they talk about. The woman says she came up to Katoomba to attend to some business, and once done she wanted nothing more than a good coffee and something light to eat. But none of the choices on offer in town held any appeal to her, so she came to the hospital, as she remembered they served good coffee there. She said that once upon a time she used to sit right at this table and sip a cup of coffee, maybe nibble a cheese sandwich, or a slice of cake if something caught her eye, three, four, five, sometimes every day of the week. This was when, she said, her husband used to be a patient here. He's now no longer with us. And she didn't say if he's buried in the cemetery next door or not.
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