On a street near the plaza with a parrot
January 28th, 2026
Today I went outside, and I walked on the street near the plaza with a parrot. The parrot’s not a real one, sadly, but it is a statue of one, which is arguably equally impressive. Ravachol was the parrot’s name, still remembered even after not being alive for 113 years, give or take. If the record’s are to be assumed, the parrot didn’t do much, it just rested on its little corner and flew around his owner’s apothecary. Always something to say, always a quip to say back at costumers, sometimes even an insult, and it’s all it did, being present, talking to everyone, even if it’s very likely he did not understand the words he was saying.
When he died, the whole town mourned him.
113 years later, and each new Entroido season we remember him, make a massive, feathered stature in his memory, each year with a different color, a different pattern, a different tie or bow, and do what we Galicians always do when we make something big and potentially flammable: burn it with love. Every yeah, we mourn him again, a parrot that we never knew, but that still made its way into our entire mindspace. Go past some stores and will see some plushies of him, every single one, again, with different colors and patterns, and is noone could really pint-point how he actually looked like. And still, every year, we mourn his idea.
I didn’t go to the plaza today, tho. As I said, I walked on the street near the plaza with a parrot. Not too crowded, not too empty, same as it always is, every day, every night. The walls on the right are more glass than wall; big windows that let you glimpse into the many stores and the one shoe store that has been there from before I was even born. A imagery weird to see outside of the many galleries of the town, but this street in particular is pretty snooty, boasting about the many jewels and expensive watches those big windows showcase, glimmering with the reflection of the light behind them that clashes against a cloudy outside. The same as I always is. Fixate on them enough, and you might forget the ground you are walking on: puddles made up with the rain from an hour ago, two tops, forming in the crevices of the street’s broken red tiles, cracked and deformed, the isometric shaped once grafted on them, the little form they tried to convey, lost to time and liters upon liters of water pouring like tears on them for the better part of a century.
Try to look at your own feet for long enough and the only thing that begins standing out are the hundreds of remnants of gum that haven’t stuck to the passerby’s feet, calcified into the red walkway and blended with the stains of bird’s fecal matter who may be a better representation of the generations of the town’s pigeons than any photo could ever provide. Nobody has ever bothered to clean up. I don’t think that’s for the worst at this point.
There’s also a wall on the left. That one doesn’t have much, I don’t think I’ve ever stepped into half of its stores. Give it a quick glance and it may not seem that enteristing, maybe not worth that much attention. You could notice the one empty shop, if only because it’s the most run down and barren of them all. I noticed it today. I remembered the bakery that was there.
Didn’t use to frequent it, it was too far from home, so why bother. Except I did bother sometimes, mostly when I was out when friends and we didn’t know where to get a sweet elsewhere. But it also had other thing that captivated me.
A parrot.
Never caught his name, I was too shy to ever talk to the owners besides asking them for a chocolate bun that costed half an euro, the one they always gave me with a smile. They seemed like nice people, and I feel sad that I cannot recall their faces anymore. But I do remember the parrot.
Since I didn’t know his real name, I called him Ravachol, since it was the only other parrot name I knew. I wasn’t the creative type back then, I know… but I was easily fascinated. And I was fascinated with this Ravachol. Every time anyone entered, he would say ‘’Hola’’, every couple seconds he would call one of us ‘’Canijo’’ (Little one in spanish) or say ‘’Carajo!’’ with all of his strength, which is how I learned my first Galician curse word. He would laugh a ton, as well, specially when something fell or one of the kids dropped one of their sweets, and it did so in such a contagious way it was impossible not to smile when you heard it. Every time someone left, or every time someone waved him, he would say ‘’Adios!’’ in the silliest, most whimsical way you could think of. Almost like it was singing to you.
He would wave you back with one his little feet.
6 years ago, passing by the street, I noticed that Ravachol wasn’t there. And the last time he waved me goodbye was the last time I would see him.
The bakery closed its doors one year later. Never knew why or what happened to the owners, but I can only hope they are doing ok. But now, nobody remembers it. Almost like it never existed, the bakery seemed like a phantom, one even not my friends could remember easily without a bit of insistence. Some us still remembered the parrot, but after so many years later, I’m not sure any of them would remember him.
Because today I realized I had forgotten him.
I reached the end of the street, and from the distance I could the statue of Ravachol. A Ravachol I never met, but mourned him for the happiness he brought. His time, I pictured my Ravachol, the one whose name I never got to know, but the one I always saw. The black and grey parrot with little pointy red feathers on his back, the parrot with a short beak and adorably screechy voice that always said hello.
I walked through the street near the plaza with a parrot, and it was more than the lights, the diamonds and shit on the ground. I walked through the street near the plaza with a parrot, and I remembered the parrot that was on the street near the plaza.
Entroido’s coming up soon, and next time we burn Ravachol, I’ll be sure to remember the other one. The other Ravachol that made me smile.
Ravachol's Statue