Itchy Feet

It was on day six in Magaluf selling jagerbombs to drunk Englishmen when I bought a one way flight to Barcelona for €40. I was bricking it, eighteen years old with about £200 left and no hostel booked. “Excuse me, donde es Plaça Catalunya?” Map in hand, rucksack by my feet, I could tell what the man was thinking by the smile playing on his dark eyes. “Aquí!” he laughed, a Marlboro red hanging from his lips. It was five o’clock and the Ramblas stretched before me like the body of a python, the main artery of the city, teeming with life. Four months later I would be back here waving goodbye, having succumbed to its magic and survived on the pulse of customers that stream through it.

I found a hostel towards the southern end of Las Ramblas and hung over the balcony to watch in wonder. The May evening breeze lifted thick wafts of garlic from packed restaurants, promoters fought for teams of young tourists, and families clustered around a hovering silver street-artist. With dusk, the mood changed. I roamed the tangled labyrinth of the Gothic quarter, where the smell of sizzling meat sometimes drowned out the stench of sewers. Low lit bars peppered my route, drawing me in with soft samba and the smell of sambuca drenched wood. “Ceveza, beer?” men with shifty eyes held plastic bags full of cans, and muttered, “coke? MDMA?” as I passed. Weaving back towards Las Ramblas I found Lechuga, a tiny pizzeria on a corner near Plaça Reial. At €2 for a huge slice of heavy goat’s cheese and pesto, silky peppers and onions, or hot pepperoni, this would become a favourite spot.

The next morning the hostel room flooded with sunlight and the aroma of proper coffee. A good sleep had sorted me out, so I strolled up to the famous Boqueria market, where during July and August, crowds would spill from its iron frame to get snaps of the gothic arced entrance, rimmed with stained glass. Beautifully groomed blue-gloved women stood proudly behind spreads of glistening fish, near-neon coloured sweets, and limbs of cured jamón. This was day one, before I’d even laid eyes on Gaudí’s spectacular stone stalactites and curving façades. I had caught a whiff of the Barcelona way, and it had gripped me.