Fall 1961 • Vol. XXIII No. 4 NonfictionOctober 1, 1961 |

The Peseta with the Hole in the Middle, Part I

THE BARRIO BY MORNING The Porter-Who-Has-It-Almost-Made never gets farther from the elevator door than Kluszewski does off first, but the thing is automatic and I don't need anybody to lift a door-handle for me. He gets to the handle in front of me, smiles, holds the door while I pass in review into the cage, follows me in smiling, and presses the button that says tercero. "This thing is automatic," I explained to him this morning, thinking maybe he didn't know. He smiled, but I didn't smile back. If he keeps on smiling like that I'll have to tell him frankly, I am promised to another. No, I didn't tip him. That would only be to encourage him. I took a one-peseta ride down the Rambla de Las Floras on a streetcar called Atarazanas, but the conductor put me off for aiming my camera at something through his window. If you're the conductor of a streetcar anywhere you can't be too careful. The Rambla de Las Floras is a wide and prosperous ramble through arbors of flowe

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