A few notes: a) the song in question in the title of the post, and b) fair warning, most of the anecdotes are not related to the photos.
There are men who scurry around Barcelona selling absolutely illegal knock-off designer brand purses and whatnot – which is nothing I haven’t seen before. What Asha found particularly delightful about these ones was the way they gathered up their bags in a giant bindle whenever the police approached. We watched one man in particular sneaking around poles and hiding behind people on benches to escape from the police, like the Grinch.
La Boqueria is a market bursting with bright colours, smells of seafood, bunches of fruit, stacks of fresh juice – all your market essentials. The first time we went in we bought the first fruit juice we came across before finding a quieter corner of the market that was selling it for a euro cheaper. You know what that means…we had to come back later and get some more.
If you see architecture in Barcelona that looks exceptionally cool, it was probably designed by Antoni Gaudí. Two big Gaudí attractions that we visited were la Sagrada Família and Park Güell. We didn’t go inside the Sagrada Família (a church that looks like it could house giant ants), but we walked around and observed the lovely construction of the exterior. We did shell out the extra euros for Park Güell, making the most of our money and sitting on the winding benches for the majority of the morning.
We followed La Barceloneta’s laundry-draped streets (not depicted here) until we came to the beach. I’m still not sure whether this was specifically defined as a nude beach, or if all beaches in Europe just have that option, but let me tell you: penises and boobs. It’s mostly old, shrivelled men who like to stretch out on their backs like a cat in the sunshine who have the balls (pun totally intended) to flaunt their penises for the world to see. And, hey, why not, eh? We also saw, from afar, a dude with enflamed-looking grey testicles, and that was a little scarring. Although, I should probably be more worried about his off-colour ball sack than about my prudeishness.
After a morning of walking, Asha and I settled on a bench (surprise, surprise), stumbling upon an epic love-story-to-be. A little Asian boy (maybe seven years old) was shouting up at a Spanish girl (Asha guesses she was nine) to her first-floor window. They both spoke Catalan (which is not, I repeat, NOT the same language as Spanish), so we had no idea what they were saying. The boy had two plastic sticks and rings, which he flung up the street and proceeded to fetch, like a hyperactive puppy. The girl watched, laughed, and directed where he should place the rings next, creating an obstacle course for him to weave in and out of. They carried on for a while, chattering back and forth – almost like innocent, amiable flirting. Both her younger and older sisters popped by the window once or twice – she didn’t seem too keen on sharing the show with them – as well as her naked father, who merely glanced down at the boy and shrugged. Asha and I observed the way the boy would do anything the girl asked him to, how he would run around in circles to make her laugh – not caring if he bumped into passersby on the street (including a guy who looked like the girl’s older brother/cousin walking a dog). I wondered if they would stay friends, if they would end up going on an extremely awkward date in their early teenage years, if she would only ever see him as a friend and might even laugh looking back at the times where she would hang out of her window just to watch him run around like a monkey. I didn’t get a photo (lest I be, you know, arrested. Or at least called out for creepy behaviour), but the real life moments like that are the ones I won’t need an Instagram to remember. (But Asha did snap one, so we’re good.)