When I opened the door

When I opened the door of the flat I found everything in deep darkness. I set an occasional table rocking in the hall and something Venetian tinkled into fragments on the floor. When I drew the curtains the Venetian glasses had no glitter - they had gone dead like unused pearls. There was a scurf of correspondence on the floor among the broken glass, but it consisted mainly of circulars and I didn't bother to examine them for a moment. I went into my aunt's bedroom with a sense of shame - yet hadn't she asked me to see that all was in order? I remembered how meticulously Colonel Hakim had explored the hotel room and how easily he had been outwitted, but I could see no candles anywhere, except in the kitchen where they were of a normal size and weight- presumably a genuine precaution against an electric failure.
I returned to the sitting-room and began to go through the post. One day mu aunt might send me a forwarding address, but in any case I wanted to save anything remotely personal from the scrutiny of Woodrow and Sparrow if they came. My old acquaintance Omo had written, and there were various bills from a laundry, a wine-merchant's, a grocer's. I was surprised not to find a bank statement, but remembering the gold brick and the suitcase stuffed with notes. I thought that perhaps my aunt preferred to keep a closer look among the dresses she had left behind, for it would be dangerous to leave cash about in the empty flat.
From the book "Travels with my aunt" by Graham Greene

He let us in

He let us in . The lights were on in the living-room, now that the day had darkened, and my eyes were dazzled for a moment by rays from the glass ornaments which flashed back from every open space. There were angels on the buffet wearing robes striped like peppermint rock; and in an alcove there was a Madonna with a gold face and a gold halo and a blue robe. On a sideboard on a gold stand stood a navy-blue goblet large enough to hold at least four bottles of wine, with a gold trellis curled around the bowl on which pink roses grew and green ivy. There were mauve storks on the bookshelves and red swans and blue fish. Black girls in scarlet dresses held green candle sconces, and shining down on all this was a chandelier which might have been made out of sugar icing hung with pale blue, pink and yellow blossoms.
Her dressing table gleamed with them: mirrors and power-jars and ash-trays and bowls for safety pins. "They brighten the darkest day,? she said. There was a very large double-bed as curlicued as the glass. ?I am especially attached to Venice,' she explained,'because I began my real career there, and my travels. I have always been very fond of travel. It's a great grief to me that my travels now are curtailed
From the book "Travels with my aunt" by Graham Greene.

Barcelona

Barcelona's bustling, tree-lined Ramblas boulevard is a boisterous fusion of noise, colour and activity. Herds of pedestrians push their way past the squeaking menageries at the exotic birds stalls and the bright, sweet smelling flower stalls.Circles of spectators form around dancing, juggling and fire-eating street entertainers. Human statues stand silent watch as a teenage Moroccan bag-snatchers weave through the crowds and, at the port end, a handful of dumpy, cheap prostitutes pitch for business.
I know no other city where a single street is so important. From sex shops and souvenir stalls to the opera house and, in La Boqueria, the best fresh food market in Spain, Las Ramblas caters _ in one way or another- for the most elemental desires of life.
This is where Barcelona celebrates, protests and riots. Built over the course of a stinking stream once known as the Cagalell - the Stream of Shit - it is, more importantly, where Barcelona meets itself.
From the book "Gosths of Spain" by Giles Tremlett

Folklore

Folklore, death and hard-edged politics overtook a village where local businesses closed down for the day. There were pipes and drums and dancing girls in long red skirts and white blouses carrying long hoops decorated with ribbons. A male dancer performed a neat, austere and highly acrobatic dance - the aurresku - full of on-the -spot turns and impressively high kicks in front of the coffin. There were also angry speeches and denunciations of Madrid. It all ended with the surprising, high-pitched sound of women ululating and the turning over by angry radicals of a radio reporter's car. I do not recall any masked men this time. But at another funeral in Solaruze - this time for an ETA gunwoman shot by the army sergeant she had tried to kill when he stopped his car at a traffic light - masked characters appeared with a huge banner bearing the axe and serpent of ETA.
From the book "Ghosts of Spain" by Giles Tremlett

The gaggle

A separate door might then open and a swarm of slightly older, crawling infants appear through it. The crawlers would be shepherded this way or that like a gaggle of slow-moving geese. If they had to go upstairs, they tackled the staircase like professional climbers determined to conquer Mount Everest, a mass of bobbing, well-padded bottoms heading for the peak.
And so it went on. A couple of hundred children aged between zero and six, all encaseds in neat, green-and -white checked gingham pinafores, came here every day. Some started at 8. a. m. and were given breakfast. One of most starling things about these children's was the tweeness which some were dresses. We had spotted the specialist children's shops full of powder-blue boys' outfits and pink girl's outfits before coming parents ourselves.
But it was when a delicate, powder-blue, knitted.cotton, ribboned baby suit arrived from an acquaintance who was not only meant to be a prominent feminist but also a Socialist minister, that we realised this was just not fashion for 1950 nostalgists. At the nursery school and in the park, we would see parents who looked and dressed like us, parading children dressed in elaborate knickerbockers, smocked dresses, sashes, bows, Peter Pan collars, pin-tucks or matching knickers and bloomers. Often these children would come in matched pairs, their clothes identical or, if boy and girl, made of the same material. The occasional family of three of four kids might be identified by the fact that they were all, despite the age spread, wearing the same clothes, just in different sizes.
From the book "Ghosts of Spain" by Giles Tremlett