The Backstreets of Barcelona

Sangria sunk, we yearned for the true flavour of Barcelona which suffocated beneath the ever-present flock of tourists. The night air hung light; the atmosphere cheerful, as we slunk amongst the shadows, dissolving into the labyrinth of concrete to escape the La Barceloneta crowds. Just one night away from the pumping beats of the partygoers' playground.

Fuzzy headed from the alcohol, we scuffed our overworked feet along the pavement, twisting this way and that when the alleyways allowed. Then, music. Not the expected thrum of dance beats, but the honeyed tones of flamenco pouring from the opening ahead. Colourful bunting twitched in the breeze and the smell of hot food danced around us. Turning, our eyes rolled over the narrow road peppered with plastic tables and chairs which bathed in the glow of the peeling houses surrounding them; obstacles for the half-cut Spaniards thrusting their hips through the crowd.

We were different, but we were the same; welcoming hands clawed at our arms, pulling us in amongst the throngs of gyrating locals, and the servers behind the lone food stall shimmied this way and that, humming as they tore off husks of bread to hand us. The atmosphere was electric; we had stepped into a fantasy world set back from the recognisable Barcelona. Here, everyone was welcome, from the over-excited kids to the buxom older ladies whose wrinkled faces were etched with happiness, to us; gatecrashers turned guests of honour.

For hours we conspired with the enemy, testing out our broken Spanish between sips of beer from plastic cups. All the time our hips bobbed uncontrollably to the fresh rhythms that floated from the stage wedged at the end of the street.

Then, as quickly as it had started, it finished. The crowds were gone and we were left out to dry with the bunting and debris. But, up ahead, a door swung open revealing a creased, smiling face that beckoned us over. Crammed inside were dozens of Spaniards, whooping and chattering around a table full of delicious food-platters. An elderly lady heaved herself off her chair and motioned for us to join them; linguistically we could not communicate, but we all spoke the language of life, happiness, good food, and great company. So there we sat, surrounded by a surreal warm glow, slopping cheap beer down the sides of our plastic cups. Thank God the night was still young in the hidden backstreets of Barcelona.