I was walking home from the metro when I saw this beautiful sight. That wood looks romantic to me. It reminds me of the fireplace I had in Ibiza. I watched that fireplace get built and the man who built it left his wife and child and was never seen on the island again, but he sure knew how to make a chimney draw smoke. We were warm all winter thanks to him. I can still smell the musky nutmeg perfume of those coppery trunks, like damp burning leaves, like old oak and olive and hickory bark. We had a wood burning stove in a loft in Barcelona the year Pope John Paul II came to town and I saw him along the Travessera de les Corts in his Pope mobile. That year we collected all kinds of woody scraps in the dumpsters and burned it, whatever it was, some of it wasn’t really wood, it smelled like plastic and didn’t really burn or keep us warm. We never saw a pick-up unload firewood then and if we had we would have jumped right in the back and gone to get a load for ourselves! So when I saw these logs on the street today I had to stop and ask the man what was going on, although I had a hunch. It was for the pizzeria on the corner down the block, a not especially charming place where I’ve never been. You can bet I’m going to check it out soon.