Lurking round the winding passageways in the city of Barcelona is Picasso's ghost. Here, setting up an easel at the Cathedral de St Someone. Here, painting the turreted rooftops, or the view from the window of his lover. At the playa in Barceloneta.
I have only visited the Basque country, and this is my first visit to Catalunya. Spanish energy is for me completely new, young, fresh; vital - unexpected. Alive. Casual, extraordinary. Absolutely nothing like Paris. The gentleness of a Mediterranean city and the style of thousands of young people. Roman ruins. Gaudi architecture, xocolate and xurros. It feels very old and very young at the same time.
It is a city for living, but so crowded with the internationals that often there is little room to breathe. There is a distinct pulse coming from the underbelly, the Roman aqueducts I imagine underneath the cobblestone streets. It draws me in - the joy of old cities without urban planning - getting lost as I choose a winding alley to wander, to look in the windows of antique shops and xocolaterias and medieval bars.
Espying fisherman's sandals in a size 35, chasing them through the alleys. Searching for Picasso, for the ancient Cataluynian heartbeat. The old stones which built Barcelona, trod on by Roman warriors, kings and princes, that witnessed revolutions, Franco, women in espadrillos and stilettos, the wetness of the sea and the giant puppets of the Festa de Mercé - all is reflected back at me, bouncing off the stained glass, the mirrored façades, the smiles of the buskers and in the street performers maquillage, the musicians and the municipal workers, the gleams of metal as the tiendas close at midday and the Spanish retreat for the afternoon.
I have only visited the Basque country, and this is my first visit to Catalunya. Spanish energy is for me completely new, young, fresh; vital - unexpected. Alive. Casual, extraordinary. Absolutely nothing like Paris. The gentleness of a Mediterranean city and the style of thousands of young people. Roman ruins. Gaudi architecture, xocolate and xurros. It feels very old and very young at the same time.
It is a city for living, but so crowded with the internationals that often there is little room to breathe. There is a distinct pulse coming from the underbelly, the Roman aqueducts I imagine underneath the cobblestone streets. It draws me in - the joy of old cities without urban planning - getting lost as I choose a winding alley to wander, to look in the windows of antique shops and xocolaterias and medieval bars.
Espying fisherman's sandals in a size 35, chasing them through the alleys. Searching for Picasso, for the ancient Cataluynian heartbeat. The old stones which built Barcelona, trod on by Roman warriors, kings and princes, that witnessed revolutions, Franco, women in espadrillos and stilettos, the wetness of the sea and the giant puppets of the Festa de Mercé - all is reflected back at me, bouncing off the stained glass, the mirrored façades, the smiles of the buskers and in the street performers maquillage, the musicians and the municipal workers, the gleams of metal as the tiendas close at midday and the Spanish retreat for the afternoon.
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