The Allure of Barcelona

by Lyndsay Hemphill | 2009

Be sure to ring your bells liberally, Chris, our bike tour guide instructs us. We'll be riding through some narrow streets and you'll have to let people know we're coming.

Crisp dings fill the air in the cobbled courtyard as we ring our bells with childlike enthusiasm. All right, time to take off, Chris says. We hop up on our bike seats and begin pedaling after him. Slowly we file into a long line of thick-tires, gears, and eager tourists.

The wind that gently brushes my face is cool, mid-morning air. We make a short ride to the Plaza del Rei, then dismount and listen as Chris tells us about the Christian martyrs who had died on the steps in front of us. Like good tourists, we pose for some pictures and then we head out.

We wind through the gothic quarter and down to the gardens. We gaze in awe at the fountain in the Parc de la Ciutadella; the sheer enormity of it can hardly fit within our camera's frames. We hold our breath as we pass the zoo, we zoom up to the Barcelona's version of the Arch del Triomf. We pedal down the promenade. We stop outside a gothic cathedral where a Christian girl had been placed in a barrel full of glass and rolled down the steps. Monuments zoom past and we have barely enough time to snap a picture before moving on. A bull-fighting arena, its existence now largely based on tourists' expectations, nonetheless resplendent with white and blue tiles. The opera house, with its winding organic façade of broken tiles and twisting shapes. Catalan modernisme at its zenith.

Finally, La Sagrada Familia. From the outside only. Permanent scaffolding on the sides hardly enough to obscure its grandness, its intricate carvings. It will never be finished, Chris says. Not because of money, no, but because due to all the tourists paying to see it in its unfinished state, the church has more than enough funds. They actually make more money this way, so what would be the point in hiring architects and builders to finish it? Think about it: each person pays 15 euros to get in, and about two thousand people go in every day. You can do the math... that's a lot of cash. Still, we are all beside ourselves with awe to actually be standing in front of this monumental structure.

And last we make our way down to the beach. By now it is late afternoon, and in the off-season of early December the beach is hardly crowded. Sand stretches around the Mediterranean until curving away at the horizon.

We sit at a long table in an open air café and order drinks. All twenty of us gather around the table: with my friend and traveling companion Alex to my left, Chris somehow ending up at my right. Alex strikes up a conversation with one of her neighbors, a woman from Amsterdam who rides a bike like it's as easy as walking. At the far end of the table, two middle-aged couples from America talk loudly and laugh easily. An Australian man and his fiancée across from me are telling Chris about their traveling plans and occupations. I have to concentrate very hard in order to understand what the Australian is saying, and catch something about "Delhi belly." I listen to Alex and the Dutch woman discuss languages taught in schools for awhile, still marveling that children in Cataluña are expected to be fluent in Spanish, Catalan, English, and now Chinese. I feel quite ashamed by my limited knowledge of English and even more terrible attempts at Spanish.

When our drinks come, Chris turns to me and asks where I am from. I tell him Alex and I are both seniors in college, and that I am majoring in Art History. Barcelona seemed like the perfect place to visit for vacation, before we have to start worrying about graduation and job hunting next semester. Plus the plane tickets to Spain were really cheap.

What about you, I ask. Where are you from?

Originally I was born in New York and raised there, he answers. My father is from Spain. A few years ago I decided to come visit and work here for a little bit. Now I've been here seven years and I don't think I could ever leave.

But your parents are still in the States?

Oh yeah, my dad's a big fan of the American ways. He's very conservative.

Ah, I say. My dad, too.

But you're not? He says this knowing the answer. My dad even supports the war, but I don't know. What do you think about it?

I reply slowly, a little surprised at being asked such a direct question. I think there should have been much more diplomacy before we rushed into anything, I explain. And just thinking of all the lives lost, the culture, the misunderstandings... It doesn't seem worth it. I mean, just thinking of the ancient artifacts that are now lost forever is terrible. I like to think the war could have been avoided if we had tried harder to understand the Middle Eastern culture.

He gazes at me for a moment, and I find myself becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Then he says, You're very well-spoken. He smiles and dimples appear in the corners of his cheeks.

I smile back but luckily don't have to reply, as our food arrives at that very moment. As we tuck into our meals talk turns less weighty matters: how you can't see an inch of sand on the beaches during the summer, other travel plans, and so on.

After sinking our toes into the sand once our meal is finished, we take a final lap around the harbor and head back downtown.

As we pay Chris for the tour, Alex elbows me. We should ask him for a place to eat dinner.

So as I hand over my money, I ask, Do you have any restaurant suggestions for dinner tonight? We want to find some really good paella.

He doesn't hesitate. Oh yeah, there's this really great place at the Plaza del Mer. It's on the eastern side of the piazza and there's always a line for dinner, so you should get there early. Here, let me write down the name of it for you.

He picks up a business card for the bike tour service and scribbles a name on the back. As he hands the card to me, our fingers touch for the smallest of moments. But all of a sudden, I find myself having to concentrate very hard on breathing. In, and out. Take the card.

I meet his eyes and manage an even, Thanks. We'll definitely check it out.

He smiles and says, I hope you like it.

Thanks so much for the tour, it was really great.

Yeah, Alex adds, I'm really glad we did it.

I'm glad! he says. Enjoy the rest of your time here. Again, he smiles and his teeth are so white against his tan face.

We will, I say. And then there was nothing left to say. But I left with a feeling that I should have said more.

Alex and I spend the afternoon weaving through crowds on the Rio D'Angelo. We fight our way through hordes of tourists to find the best bargains in fashion shop after fashion shop. Eventually we are forced to retreat, clutching heavy bags of souvenirs. We make our way wearily back to our hostel for a siesta before night sets in.

When I awake from my nap I find that Alex has already left the room. I find her out in the hostel's lounge, chatting in English with patches of Spanish to three young Italian men who have apparently just checked in. I suffer through an introduction and then pull her away.

I gripe as she gives them a coquettish wave and promises to go to a club later with them. I'm hungry, come on, let's go.

Fine, fine, but I want to see if those guys are around later. Wouldn't it be fun to go clubbing with some cute Italian boys?

I shrug and she gives me sour look. Evan would want you to have fun, you know.

I never said anything about Evan.

Yeah but I can tell. You never want to let loose when he's not around. What are you worried about, anyway? You guys have been dating for forever.

Yeah.

Yeah. You know, she adds with a touch of mischievousness, he's going to pop the question any day now.

Oh my God, you're crazy. I pretend to be occupied with the street signs. I think we need to turn here, right?

Yeah. But I'm serious. You guys are adorable. My bet is, as soon as you graduate he'll ask.

I smile a little. Que sera, sera. Right now, I'm just thinking about paella.

Mmm yeah.

We find the plaza and sure enough, a line has formed. The restaurant doesn't open for dinner until 8, so we stand outside for awhile, enjoying the warm breeze and the futile attempts of a street performer to entertain us. Finally, we are ushered inside and before we know it, a steaming pan of seafood paella is set in front of us. In between bites of saffron rice, spicy chorizo, and freshly steamed crawfish, we sip on sangria and discuss tomorrow's itinerary. For desert we order a special Catalan custard and when we make our way back to the hostel we do so contentedly satiated.

I'm feeling tired and tell Alex I don't know if I'm going to be up to clubbing tonight. She immediately becomes disappointed. But as she is trying to persuade me that I must come out with her, music fills the narrow streets of the Gothic quarter.

I wonder where that music is coming from?

We both turn down a street opposite the direction of our hostel in pursuit of the music's source. We can hear an upbeat guitar, drums, and a flute and the noise is getting louder. The street opens up into a plaza, where a huge crowd of people has gathered. A bright light illuminates the far side of the plaza, presumably where the band is set up.

As we weave through gathered groups of people, we realize that in the middle of the square people are dancing. They are all executing the same moves in a kind of partner dance, like something from an old Jane Austen movie. Except here the music is joyful and the dancers' grins reflect the movements' energy.

What is this? I ask Alex, as if she would know.

She taps a guy next to her on the shoulder and manages to ask him what the people are doing. I'm impressed she remembers the correct verb conjugation. She tells me, He said they all know this dance.

We exchange baffled looks, but are so intrigued that we make our way around the where the band is playing. Behind their stage are some stone steps, and we make our way up those to have a better view of the dancing below.

Hey, I say with sudden realization. We were here earlier today. This is the Plaza del Rei.

Indeed we now sit with our backs to the famous old church. The band strikes up a new song, and suddenly all the dancers form a large circle. We watch, slightly in awe at the coordination, as two people are picked to dance in the middle of the circle. As the band plays on, the dancers go around and pick more people to join them in the center. I think, We could do that, it doesn't look too complicated. But still we sit, content to simply watch.

I look around at the other people gathered on the steps who are also watching the dance. Suddenly I gasp and nudge Alex.

Look, our bike tour guide is over there!

Aw, she says. Before I realize, she is waving him over and he is sitting beside me. We exchange hellos and Alex goes back to viewing the dance.

So, I ask, do you know what's going on here?

He points at a huge sign hanging up on the courtyard wall across from us. Somehow I had missed that. He says, Yeah, it's a Catalan culture organization. They do dances and things like this pretty often.

Oh, I say, trying not to feel foolish.

My dad is here, he says. He points to an older man sitting farther down the steps.

Cool. Is he enjoying himself?

Chris shrugs. Yeah, I think so. Anyway, I should probably go back and sit with him.

Ok, I say. Again, I feel the need to keep talking. I think quickly. Should I ask for his email, so we can keep in touch when I get back to the States? Or maybe I should ask if he has a Facebook profile, or Myspace... but no, that would seem silly. Besides, if I had his contact information, what could come of it?

Wait.

He looks at me questioningly.

Do you want to dance?

All it takes is those six little words, and I am walking down the steps. We are making our way through the couples dancing near the band. We find a place on the cobblestones and he takes my hand to lead me. I am spinning and nervous but he reflects my silly grin back at me. An older man and a young woman dance close to us and we mimic their movements, smiling at them broadly.

And then? And then we exchange emails. We keep in contact. I find myself more and more attracted to him, and have to break up with Evan. I can't stop thinking about Spain. I re-learn Spanish from my high-school text books. I graduate. I take a job offer abroad. I rent an apartment here. I become a Barcelonan.

Or so my life could go, if I had not watched Chris walk back down to his father without ever calling aloud for him to stop. If I had not forced myself to just watch the dancers, never joining them. I realize after two songs that Chris and his father have left.

I sigh and say aloud, I forgot to tell him that we liked the restaurant he recommended.

Huh? My words appear to have startled Alex from her own reverie. Oh yeah, their paella was excellent. Hey, do you want to head back now?

Sure. But I'm pretty tired. Do we have to go clubbing?

I guess not, she concedes. We have to get to the airport early tomorrow, so we can just sleep tonight.

I offer a hand to help her up while hoping that I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. When I return home, all that I will have to show are photographs of smiling tourists posing in front of ancient architecture. What I will have to keep inside is much more.

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