Barcelona and the late dinner

When I went down for dinner a bit before ten p.m., the plaza was still hopping, with petite squads of men and women crossing to and fro, guitarists and squeezebox players working far enough apart that they didn't hurt one another, and every restaurant open and barking for business.  

The tables glow oddly from the light of the heat lamps under every table's umbrella.  

My meal was good, the people-watching superb, and the music so-so, with one of the worst busker renditions of Hallelujah ever.  Still, on balance, it's fine to be in Barcelona, even on a winter night.