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June 3, 2012
Girona
The night settles slowly. In the evening we pick up pinchios from stacked platters, and drink beer in stocky glasses. It is a young, cool bar, the bar staff tatooed, dreadlocked, and pierced. Outside their mates hang out in loose t-shirts, holding shaggy dogs on thick colorful cords. But older couples come and go, and the atmosphere is welcoming in spite of the sometimes heavy music. A fresh batch of pinchos with hot susages, fresh from the pan, is handed around, and red fat drips down our chins. At the end chopsticks are counted, and we pay little.