Exploring Barcelona

Controversially, I didn’t think much of La Sagrada Familia. Don’t get
me wrong, I could see that an infinite amount of intricate detail and obviously millions of hours of work have gone into the construction of this incredible building, but as I gazed up at it from the square I stood in, I felt no passion stirring inside me. I love good architecture and normally I like nothing more than checking out beautiful buildings. But for some reason, La Sagrada Familia just really didn’t do it for me.

Maybe it was the hot midday sun and the fact I was in a bit of a bad mood,
having traipsed across the city to see it in flip flops that were giving me
blisters on the soles of my feet (don’t ask!). Maybe it’s because of the long, winding queue to get in, the clusters and crowds of people that had flocked to the familiar landmark and who now dogged my every step, leaving me to dodge and weave my way along the pavement. I felt irritable, tired and out of sorts – I’m afraid I was a bit of a bitch, truth be told! We decided against going into La Sagrada Familia and instead went and found a bar and ordered cold beers to drink outside at a shady table.

That afternoon, after a change of shoes, I took off on my own to explore the Gothic district. As I plunged down a narrow, shaded alleyway off La Rambla, I felt the mornings frustrations and irritations melting away. I
wanted to get lost, to see this old part of the city, to wander aimlessly and
stumble across cute cafés, cool gelato shops and small, quiet squares. I wanted to see old church towers, avoid traffic and take a less trodden path. I took the deserted alleys, evading other people where possible, walking deeper and deeper into the heart of the Gothic district, stopping to browse shops, take photos and buy an ice cream.

My wanderings eventually brought me out onto a bigger, busier square,
overshadowed by the Catedral de Barcelona. I went to the doorway, despite the crowds, and peered inside. My eyes were immediately drawn upwards to admire the dramatic stone arches that flew overhead, running the width of the basilica. Although there were hundreds of people, the cathedral had a sense of calm and peace about it that I hadn’t felt at La Sagrada Familia. I stepped into the cool interior and felt the peace pervade me. The hushed atmosphere, the echoed footsteps and the whispers reverberating around the cathedral all served to add to the feeling of escape as I wandered down an aisle between rows of pews and amongst the naves.

I’m not a religious person. I will go as far as to say I am a committed atheist,
and I will defend my stance to the hilt if necessary. I know that if I ever marry, I will definitely not have my wedding in a church, for the simple reason that I don’t want to be the biggest hypocrite on earth. Having said all that however, I’d like to admit that I love the beautiful architecture and the timeless feeling you get when you walk into a church – you can almost feel the ghosts of centuries of worshipers around you. Even the smallest of churches have an atmosphere of cool, calm, quiet peace. Although I don’t believe that there is a god, I can understand why people have their beliefs and why they go to these wonderful buildings of worship to show their devotion to their chosen deity.

I sat in a quiet corner and looked around me, people watching as well as admiring the architecture. I was interrupted by an old man who came and
perched next to me. He glanced sideways at me and gave me a smile, his eyes twinkling, the skin around them wrinkling into craggy crow’s feet. I returned the smile. Neither of us spoke, but we shared a moment together as we sat quietly, drinking our fill of the cathedral.

I stumbled across the Parc de la Ciutadella a little while after leaving the cathedral. Soon, I was wandering down a wide boulevard watching women blow huge bubbles for excited children to chase. There were several cyclists, people strolling with buggies, couples holding hands and talking with their heads close together. I veered off down a hidden pathway amongst lush green trees that edged around a large pond, where several pedalos were inching along the water, the people inside pedalling hard but apparently making little headway.

The path opened onto a wide space dominated by the Cascada Monumental,
a giant waterfall designed under the command of Josep Fontsere, who was
supported by Gaudi at the time. I sat down on a bench outside the band stand and watched people flowing past, some rushing, some slow, some on their phones, some families, some alone, some in groups of friends, some silent, some laughing, all of them going somewhere, living their lives in this vibrant, beautiful city. I watched as a father swung his giggling toddler high into the air and the child’s pudgy arms flew out in an attempt to catch more of the giant bubbles that were floating in the air around him.

After half an hour, with dusk coming on, I headed back to the apartment with aching feet and a feeling of calm deep inside me, relaxed after my time
alone, ready for an evening of sangria and tapas with my family. We drank our jugs of sangria in the warm walled courtyard of a small bar and ate tapas late on, around 11pm, in a touristy restaurant. The food wasn’t that good and we were disturbed by a group of middle aged football fans who made lewd, sexist comments at the table next to us. We cast them filthy looks and commented loudly enough for them to hear about how awful they are, saying what a shame it was that British people came away and
acted like louts. They told us to lighten up and fuck off, and we threw
defensive comments back at them, shrugging at the other patrons, apologising silently for their behaviour, trying to show that we weren’t like them one little bit. They walked out without paying, getting angry with the owner when he made it clear that they weren’t welcome in his  establishment. We finished our meal and left full, falling asleep an hour later with tight stomachs, wishing we’d eaten a little earlier, so unused were we to eating on Spanish time.

The next morning, we ambled through the Mercat de Sant Josep / La
Boqueria, looking for produce to buy to make dinner in the apartment that
evening. Our senses were hit with a riot of sights, sounds and smells. Food of every shape, size and colour could be found – spanking fresh shining fish, crabs and lobsters clawing in their tanks, every type of mushroom imaginable, a bounty of brightly coloured vegetables and fruits, from the sublime to the ridiculous, mountains of sweets and chocolates, refrigerators full of cold goods, olives, salamis, artichokes, pasta salads… At one stall we came across offal – a sheep’s head peering creepily up at us through blank milky eyes and masses of textured white tripe, the smell making me gag. By contrast, at the next stall, a pile of strawberries almost as tall as me gave off such a mouth-watering scent that I almost bought a punnet to eat there and then. Instead, I bought a freshly squeezed juice and helped Mum to choose the food for our dinner – asparagus, mushrooms, garlic, fresh pasta, perfumed lemons and herbs that left a faint trace of their scent on our fingertips.

We spent the afternoon lost in the Gothic district again, ending up at the Picasso museum and queuing to get in on Mum’s request. A long-time fan of
his work, she wanted to wander the cool stone galleries and peruse his artwork at her leisure. We strolled along the corridors, sometimes together, sometimes alone, meeting near the end with tired feet and the need to re-group and take a break. We sat outside and had coffees before heading home to cook our evening meal.

Our final morning was spent going over old ground – back to the Gothic district once more, buying gelato and checking out the tacky souvenir shops. Despite some arguments, we were sad to be leaving Barcelona, and P,
behind. There was a heart-stopping few minutes when the airport transfer didn’t turn up on time and I was left wondering if we were at the right meeting point, if the car was even coming at all or if we were going to completely miss our flight… An overreaction, and our driver arrived ten minutes late, full of apologies.

As our plane lifted above the cotton-candy white clouds and Barcelona
stretched out below us, a toy city, I felt sad to be leaving. Barcelona is a
truly beautiful city and I definitely did not feel that I’d spent enough time
there. I want to go back in the future and explore further. I want to wander
through Park Güell and experience more of Gaudi’s stunning architecture. I want to go back to the Mercat de Sant Josep / La Boqueria and taste more of the wonderful treats on offer. I want to go to some beautiful restaurants and eat amazing tapas and I want to drink more sangria under the cover of darkness, in the thick, warm evening air. I want to stroll beside the azure Mediterranean sea and drink coffee outside cafes whilst enjoying the sun on my back.

And yes, perhaps I even want to go back to the Sagrada Familia and see how I feel about it a second time around. I wonder if I pre-judged this famous
landmark too hastily, if I had been in a better mood perhaps I would have
looked at it more favourably. Maybe if I return with low expectations, perhaps when it’s a quieter season, I will be wowed by the Sagrada Familia. Maybe if I planned ahead and pre-booked an entry ticket and didn’t have to queue as long to get in, I would find myself marvelling at the exquisite artwork and impressive architecture and wondering why on earth I didn’t like it the first time around. I daresay it deserves a second chance – one day…