The restaurant workers come early, when it is quiet, and custom has not yet come to the wide boulevards by the sea.
The restaurant workers come early, when the sailboats are moored and watching from their perches and purchase across the boulevard and the morning traffic is just only slightly psycho yet, and the nose-to-nose battles of bus, bicycle, moto, car hood, pedestrian hip and skateboard only slightly more civil, and the surfers are smaller in number, carrying their longboards down the boulevard of Joan de Borbo, in Barceloneta.
The restaurants are mostly mute yet.
The doors are shut, and their colours more clear and more silent.
The fall has come, just. The leaves fall from the plane trees and rustle up the wide sidewalk. The news vendors, of course, have been to work a while. The little Supermercat men, natch. But the lunch crowd is a while off yet. The menu is not yet posted. The daily special not yet chalked.
The blue of the eating enclosure is more intimate yet, not yet sheltering eaters.
The lone restaurant worker is fanning out a cloth for the table, like a flag for the pride of food.
All the pedestrianizers and all the eatery workers, todos los trabajadores de los restaurantes estan mucho mas tranquilo, trabajan tranquilamente, quiet work in a bit of wind, and then comes the outlook in hard Spanish times for the customer who might grace the neatly clothed table. Even if the money is a mess, make your work fine, set the white napkin just so on the blue clothed table set just so.
For a moment before the natural money panic as the mealtimes come and go, there is the pride of the cloth, the blue painted enclosure, the pride of the blue, the morning moment on the Mediterranean boulevard.
(Photo by Susan)