It started six years ago, as I exited the Metro station outside of Sagrada Familia to be confronted with the most amazing structure I have ever seen with my own eyes, an insane church straight from the mind of one of the few men worthy of the tag "genius." It ended with a classical version of "The Winner Takes It All" playing in the underground, followed by the ABBA version soundtracking my last minutes in the airport a few hours later. Of course, that's assuming that the story has come to a close, which seems unlikely. Chances are I'll find a reason to return to Barcelona.
* * *
In many ways, Barcelona is something of a mess, a perennial work-in-progress, the spirit of which is best embodied by Antoni Gaudi's aforementioned masterpiece, which started construction in 1882 and won't be finished before 2026 at the earliest. A sprawling mass of high rises that seems eternally stuck in the 20th century, punctuated only occasionally by breathtaking architecture and the odd modern glass structure, still trapped beneath the weight of a dictatorship that came to an end less than 40 years ago. The constant regeneration that has occurred since then has had a relatively limited impact, and in many respects Barcelona is a relic.
But a city should never be defined solely by appearances. Barcelona is one of the most alive places you could ever hope to spend time in; not in the "never sleeps" sense, like New York or Berlin, but in the sense that during the peak hours of human activity it is absolutely relentless. It hasn't been neutered like so many major cities; tourist traps exist, but wandering off the beaten track pays off big time, and any given back alley can be a hub of activity, home to an amazing restaurant or a blink-and-you'll-miss-it bar. I could spend an entire post elucidating about the grid system much of the city was built in. And although the regeneration moves at a slow pace, it remains a sign of the constant evolution that is likely to continue well into the future. Barcelona has a character completely of its own, and for that it should be cherished.
* * *
On my first visit I fell in love with the place, even after accidentally finding myself on a date with another guy, being assaulted by a prostitute whilst walking along La Rambla, and spending the early hours of one morning asleep on a bench. Or maybe because of those things; a city isn't worth much if you don't have stories to tie you to it. I tried to fit everything in - the Picasso museum, the Joan Miro Foundation, the Nou Camp, Parc Guell, Montjuic - and despite my best efforts only managed to scratch the surface. Still, the impression I was left with was overwhelmingly favourable.
That goodwill was wiped out almost entirely by my second visit, although I'll be the first to admit that I got the mechanics of the trip wrong from start to finish. Much like this year, the primary reason for flying out was the Primavera music festival. However, at times it was disastrous: flights with Ryanair at ungodly hours of the day from Liverpool to "Barcelona" Reus, which is actually close to two hours outside of the city centre; a ridiculous schedule of moving from hostel to apartment to hotel to hostel; the combination of the above conspiring to deny me the time needed to enjoy the beats and rhythms of the city. Add in some poorly thought out food choices and some truly brutal hangovers, and the good times - the actual festival, basically - were contained in one tiny part of Barcelona, rendering the rest of the holiday superfluous. Still, Primavera was enough fun to convince me to return.
What follows is primarily the story of my third visit, although I reserve the right to veer from a linear path in order to ramble on about other experiences - and about nothing in particular - whenever the mood takes me. Hopefully you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed living it.
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