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Byline: Melissa Rossi
Barcelona's gothic quarter is a tangle of narrow stone streets winding around the old cathedral. Morning begins with a loud clanging of metal as the gasman rumbles along, pushing a cart of dusty orange cans and bellowing "Bu-ta-noooo!" He passes cafes, outdoor cheese markets and fountained squares where, later in the day, old men read newspapers and string quartets play Vivaldi. "Bu-ta-noooo!" Hearing his call, people pop onto their balconies and yell down orders for the butane that powers most of the neighborhood's furnaces, stoves and hot-water heaters.
The daily ritual recalls a distant past. But slip around the corner, past the ...