The city seemed to have layers that became saturated with detail once I noticed them. First, it had been street people, filling the corners like swept-up piles of trampled flowers. Then half-open purses and bags had appeared, their most valuable contents rising to the top like cream. Treasure in the garbage had popped up next, and now, as I walked back to the squat from Xavi’s, the neighbourhood was overflowing with graffiti: colourful tags and stencilled images, quotes and slogans, declarations of love. The styles of different artists wove through the streets leaving trails I could follow.
In Plaça de la Revolució, the biggest piece of graffiti was a giant Catalan flag. Passing it, I wondered how long it had been there, and how long it would last. Some graffiti seemed to become an accep
