His name is Antonio

At the very end of my road sits a roundabout infront of the neighbourhood cemetery, where whitewashed walls frame a classic wrought iron gate entrance through to the graves of the people of the pueblo. To its left extends a low wall that saunters off to a small green area which holds a small kiddies playground. I drive the few minutes all the way down my road most days, swing around past the cemetery off down to the train station where I park the car and head in to the city centre.

In the midst of a of a rainy week the sun came out in force on Easter Monday and instead of driving the 2 minutes to the station, I had an urge to walk the 15 minutes instead. I was in no rush and it was a day for being outside. I was heading in to the heart of Barcelona to do a special lunchtime run for the homeless society I volunteer for. Different to the evening packed meals we usually give, we did a collaboration with another group to provide some hot meals for those in need. It was the first holiday of the year...if you can call it a holiday in the middle of a pandemic, where we all need some cheer. The homeless are no different, infact they need more cheer than most. 

If I hadn't have walked, I would have never have seen the tent pitched on the concrete paving next to a park bench behind that wall next to the cemetery. The wall added shelter like the tent could have been hooked in to a snug ravine or cliff face on the steepest of mountains, as it was more likely to have been designed for in any outward bound adventure store, and not for this obvious state of homelessness. A small strew of unorganised items lay on the bench, a bottle of water, various supermarket bags with most probably essential supplies.

Homelessness is never good, we all know that. But I challenge you to stand infront of it for a long moment while it stares back at you square in the face, superpower rays from its eyes burning in to you. It's hard. When I moved to Barcelona, it surprised me just how many people without roofs, sin techos, in a cosmopolitan city seen often only in a touristic value. That's why I got involved in the association I volunteer for. On this day, seeing sin techos in a residential suburb in such a setting doesn't make any sense. Or any day for that matter.

From the lunch run we had a few meals left over - it's hard to catch the homeless in our usual spots during the day, they move around searching to mingle in to city crowds as if a normal citizen, trying to keep their woes at bay and one step ahead of the Pacman ghosts that chase them in their daily labyrinth, before hunkering down at dusk in doorways and any sheltered park areas they can find. They lay down their meager belongings and pitch their tents - if they are lucky to have one - hoping for a tranquil night's sleep to give them energy to face another difficult day ahead. Besides, they get moved on by the Police when they try to stay in one place, society doesn't want to see them. This tent owner immediately sprung to mind for the leftover meals , so I took two of them back with me, just incase there was more than one person. 

When I got back, nobody was there. To be expected I told myself, but as I walked the further 5 more mins back to where I live, the expectation faded as I realised just how close to home it was, how someone could not have a home in a area full of them. I have a garden, backing on to a field and green hillsides with the bustle of the city in sight from my patio. The tent looks so out of place, it's not right. Really not right that a person should be on the street here.

I warmed the meals up and went back in the evening as if I was doing a usual weekend run in the city. A guy was there, alone, pottering about outside his tent, as if he was trying to find the norm of doing household things. In the twilight of the evening, with only an overhead street lamp on the other side of the wall, it wasn't so clear to see him in detail, with the social distancing and covid-19 in place, his face hidden behind a mask. But three things still struck me. 

He was old; his hair although still all there was cut short and thinning and greying, whisps of a grey beard creeping out the side of his surgical mask. Then, as his slightly hunched figure looked up at me, I caught the glimmer of blue eyes, mixed with grey as if colour coordinated to the rest of his headly features. Kind eyes, eyes that given the time would speak and tell you stories.

He didn't say much but happily and gratefully took the meals - I had no doubt he would have no problem eating both. I read an initial confusion in those eyes, as if not understanding why I was giving him these. I briefly told him of what I did and how I lived nearby and thought he might have appreciated something hot to eat in the crisp spring evening. Crisp can very quickly become cold if you are out long enough in it. I wished him well and with the conversational ice broken I instinctively told him I would come back soon one evening.

The next weekend infact. I was at home on a Saturday night in Covid times. 

This time he didn't have a mask on, he was on his own after all. I would have guessed he was around 65, but living on the street is harsh, sometimes it is really quite difficult to tell. This time his eyes stood out to me more, almost as if he wasn't Spanish at all, but a Scandinavian fisherman with his grey beard, just missing a cap, a thick, knitted, roll neck jumper and pea coat. His mouth seemed a little matted in his whiskers as if he had cut his lower lip or had some kind of infection, but this could not take anything away from his eyes.

Each time I go he says a little more, he remembers my name now; Andrew is more similar to the Catalan version of the Spanish Andres for which my name translates - Andreu. We exchange a few more words. 

One time, after taking him something spicy that I had made for myself, he smiled and told me he really likes spicy food. He said he eats all things, as if acknowledging beggars can't be choosers. But I want him to have choice, I want him to know he has options and an opinion. That he has an identity, that he is not invisible. I will only cook what he wants or what he likes. 

He told me he likes to walk around during the day, and he likes to play Petanque - the French solid steel-style bowls played on gravel. I can imagine him blending with others of his age, having fun in his retirement, making conversations of how he would change the world as old people so often do infront of modern failings in society. Instead the reality of this society has led him to where he is, sin techo - without a solid roof over his head.

His clothes look very well-worn but not too beraggled, and he has a good pair of boots which relieves me, given the kilometres he must cover on his daily wanderings. I do know now that he gets his clothes washed by his niece upon me offering to do so, which is almost bitter-sweet, knowing he can keep clean in this way but also has family while he sleeps outside in a tent. 

Now I make a point of going on Wednesdays and one evening at the weekend. His gaze won't shy away from me now, he seems to stand a little taller, his eyes a little more blue than grey like sapphires waiting to be polished. He extends his tanned hands to shake mine when he sees me now. I think he really likes my spicy food, he told me so again - I just make more of what I eat, it's easy, I don't even have to tone down the heat for him. I think I should sit on his bench and eat with him one night, maybe I'll find out more and understand better. We could talk spice and just how much heat is just right so it doesn't spoil the taste of the ingredients.

I did say that three things struck me. After his age and his eyes, the third thing was when I introduced myself and asked what he was called. His name is Antonio. In Spanish or Italian that would be the equivalent of Anthony, like my brother. Despite my volunteering activities, whether to keep going back to him was decided for me from that moment.

I was powerless to help Anthony, but it certainly is within my power to help Antonio any which way I can.

And for every minute I spend with him, he helps me back. I've got to the stage where I can risk trying him with my Thai Chicken Green Curry that I'm making tonight, spicy of course.