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In Catalan, it is Esteve, in Spanish, Esteban. You have come here on holiday for our sunshine and beaches?”
    Before I could answer, the bus pulled into another stop. A number of workers got off and headed into a large factory complex. This reduced the crush, but the group around me stayed where it was as Aina said something in Catalan. I assumed she was telling them about our conversation, because everyone looked at me and smiled. As we started up again, Aina looked at me expectantly.
    â€œI haven’t come for the beaches,” I said, thinking back to my companions on the plane. “I have come to find out what happened to my grandfather many years ago.”
    â€œYour grandfather was in Barcelona?”
    â€œYes, in 1937 or ’38. I think he might have been a soldier in the war.”
    Aina suddenly became very excited and rattled off a whole string of Catalan, the only piece of which I understood was “ Brigadas Internacionales .” Suddenly everyone started talking at once and jostling to pat me on the back as if I was some kind of hero. I was happy and embarrassed at the same time.
    When the activity calmed down, Aina explained, “The foreigners who came to fight for Spain and Catalunya in our war are heroes here.”
    A male voice somewhere behind Aina burst into song and was joined by others.
    Viva la Quince Brigada,
    rumba la rumba la rumba la.
    Viva la Quince Brigada,
    rumba la rumba la rumba la
    que se ha cubierto de gloria,
    Â¡Ay Carmela! ¡Ay Carmela!
    que se ha cubierto de gloria,
    Â¡Ay Carmela! ¡Ay Carmela!
    Aina leaned forward and shouted in my ear. “It is the song of the Fifteenth Brigade who are covered in glory. Your grandfather was in the Fifteenth Brigade?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I shouted back. Most of the bus was singing now. “I suppose that’s one thing I’ll have to find out.”
    Aina looked out the bus window. “We are almost at our work now.” She rummaged for a piece of paper in the bag hanging from her shoulder. She wrote for a moment and then handed it to me. “This is the name and address of Pablo Aranda, the grandfather of my cousin. He is an old man but still alive, and he lives in a village by the River Ebro, we call it the Ebre. As a boy in the war, he was rescued by some soldiers. Perhaps if you go to his village, he might tell you stories.”
    Aina hesitated and looked at me with a frown. “He is a strange old man. He will not be what you expect, or wish. But he is part of history as well, and if you want to discover what happened, you must discover it all, not just what you would like to believe.”
    I looked at the torn piece of paper. Pablo Aranda, Avinguda Catalunya, 21, 43784 Corbera d’Ebre . “Thank you,” I said. I was about to ask what Aina meant by the old man being strange, but I was cut off by her smile. The singing had died away, and the bus was slowing down.
    â€œStay on to the Plaça Catalunya,” Aina said. “It is the center of Barcelona. You can go anywhere from there. Good luck.”
    As the workers poured off the bus, most smiled at me, shook my hand and wished me what I assumed was good luck. As the bus pulled away, Aina stood on the sidewalk and waved at me. I felt stupidly happy. If all Spaniards—Catalans, I corrected myself—were this friendly, I was going to enjoy my task. And I had another address. I seemed to be collecting them.

SIX
    â€œPlaça Catalunya,” the bus driver announced. There were only half a dozen of us left on the bus, me and five office workers in suits who had boarded a few blocks back. I hauled my backpack from the luggage racks at the back of the bus, said “ Gracias ” to the driver and got off. It was only as I stood on the sidewalk, watching the bus pull away, that I realized I hadn’t paid for the trip. The driver had said nothing, so I assumed Aina or someone else had taken care of my fare.