never on sunday

panzón and i rented an unfurnished loft on barcelona's famous carrer dels tallers, an extremely busy semi-pedestrian street filled with record stores, tattoo and piercing parlors and trendy shops. it took little to furnish our tiny place, but for some reason or another, we ended up going to ikea many times. one of these times was on a sunday. i don't know what possessed us, since everyone knows that everything is closed on sundays in barcelona, except los pakis, which are small (usually) pakistani-owned shops that are packed from floor to ceiling with the bare necessities (toilet paper and beer, among other things).

emerging from the underground metro into the sun, we immediately realized that we were in a sketchy neighborhood, when the people at the local bar, with a beer-sponsored sign that read frankfurt, sitting on matching plastic chairs, gave us a you-don't-belong-here look. we kept walking, past low-income housing blocks, across a high-speed road with no crosswalk, through a construction site, and along the desolate streets of an industrial area. we walked for hours in the unbearable heat of an oppressing sun, not a soul in sight. we were obviously lost and very thirsty.

right when we were about to call a ridiculously overpriced taxi to come pick us up, we caught a glimpse the blue and yellow building, an oasis in that concrete desert. at last, we were saved! we would be able to drink water, devour a crispy onion-topped hot dog (or two), revel in the air conditioning, even rest on a pöang chair! we walked weakly toward our swedish haven and were overjoyed to hear muzak coming from some outdoor speakers. we were just about to step through the gleaming glass doors, when *gasp!*, they didn't automatically open. we thought something must be wrong with the doors and tried again. nothing.

so it was true, absolutely everything is closed on sundays.