Barcelona

People and things clutter the long crowded expanse of La Rambla. Indian men hock noise makers and other useless plastic novelties, while street performers pose to take photos with paying tourists and do back flips in the middle of a demilune crowd. Restaurants line the sides of the street, selling overpriced too-sweet sangria and flavorless paella. My guide book highlights the top ten sights: Gaudi and Goya, Picasso and Miro, tapas restaurants with the best Basque wine and underground bars where serious women sweat under lights, stamping their feet to the syncopated beat of a Flamenco guitar player.  My book has subways maps and hotel recommendations, and a small section in the back listing gay-friendly clubs and currency exchange rates. I trust the information in the book, making sure to visit the must-dos and deferring to the Lonely Planet expertise on where to eat the best Jamon Iberico de Bellota, but being my fifth visit to this magnificent city, I have my own favorites as well. I try to impress my travel companion (a first time visitor) with my limited Spanish and knowledge of local customs. I mention the stern warning in my book to look out for pick pockets, feeling overly immune to the threat, having left my tell-tale fanny pack, bright white sneakers, and matching windbreaker at home. 


I don’t look like a tourist. My Spanish is passable, my over-the-knee flat black leather boots on-trend and chic. I wear a cross body bag, like all the locals. It has a zipper that I keep my hand over at all times, knowing better than to be distracted by all the tall buildings, staring up with a gaping mouth like the hoards of school tours here on their spring vacation with matching backpacks and loud American voices. I’m not afraid to use the metro, but I refuse to ask for directions unless absolutely necessary. I make sure to fold my map in such a way that it is small and manageable, not drawing attention to my foreign status. 


We go everywhere. We visit Park Guell, a child’s dream playground with its mosaic tile and signature Gaudi gingerbread house style. We sit on the serpentine bench that overlooks the city, the view stretches over the Olympic Stadium, all the way to the beach in Barceloneta where in a few months time topless women and men in Speedos will line the sand.  We eat in El Born, on Calle Agentine where the waiters speak Italian amongst themselves but the menus read in Catalan. We sit down to dinner at 11pm, finishing plate after plate of shiny cured ham and Manchego cheese, olives and Cava straight from a communal, passed around spout.  We see museums, architecture, the fanciest well-dressed women with the best smelling perfume that only comes from Paris. We finish the night in dark smoky bars, drinking tiny cups of vermouth feeling like an early 20th century bohemian. I imagine Toulouse-Latrec or  some other visiting artist sitting down at the tiny wrought iron table next to us, asking for a cigarette and then launching into a rant about love and loss and everything that is tragic in this world. 


It is impossible not to get swept away in the beauty of this place. The combination of old and new that sets the best European cities apart from those here in the States is exciting and romantic. The medieval palaces and cobblestone streets date back centuries, to a time when blood was spilt during wars, and empires were built on the backs of peasants.  The same settings that inspired Picasso and Dali to re-envision reality and a subconscious aesthetic that challenged the Academy and the existing status quo. Despite my best efforts to blend in and hide my alien status, I cannot help but be impressed by my surroundings. I easily understand the motivation of ex-patriots to abandon American life and take refuge in the culture of Europe, learning new languages and leaving behind Yankee ideals.   

In the midst of my awe, I am robbed. I am pick pocketed by a girl my own age, on an escalator on the way to the airport. She sees me struggling with my luggage, all the tell-tale signs of a tourist present like my “Iberia” luggage tag and carefree attitude. Underground in the subway, she is able to unzip my bag and take out my wallet. I notice moments later, my travel companion running after her, confronting her, and successfully recovering my vital belongings with more cajones than I could ever muster myself.  I feel angry and embarrassed, violated and scared. How did I let myself become a target? Why did I let my guard down? To think that more than once I actually moved my suitcase to the side and said “Perdón” when I thought she was accidentally bumping into me.  


Despite my idealized impression of this romantic city, I was confronted with the sad reality that culture and history do not cancel out poverty and greed. I am grateful that I had a loud-mouthed American with me, with no reservations about causing a scene or demanding a confrontation to get my stuff back. My vision of sophisticated European culture conveniently glossed over the realities of urban living, which in America, Europe, or any other continent still include crime. Countless writers, poets, artists and musicians have been inspired by the tragic juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness, of love and violence.  As much as I fell in love with that city, in the end it hurt me and scared me. Next time, I will know better than to take the metro to the airport. Instead I’ll do what the locals do and just take a cab.