Just Don't Go To Las Ramblas....

We sat in a plaza in Gracia for over an hour, watching children squeal with delight as they filled water balloons in the public fountain. Some without shirts, but not in a weird way, run around with juggling equipment and chasing bubbles. There was some kind of event on where families can bring their children and while they socialize a little, the kids can while throw things at each other and try to spin plates on sticks. We sat for over half an hour on a bench watching this delightful scene play out.

There was one particular boy that screeched out over the rest, who with having quite the meltdown. He started running away from his father and, quite appropriately, slipped and fell on his tantruming little bootie in a muddy puddle. His parents decided to punish him by filling up more water balloons for him and playing catch as long as he wanted. I see you, Plaza Parents, and that was a major fail.

Other fathers with a bit more grip on reality stood on a woven mat and took turns trying to learn to juggle. One after another blew a little steam out of his calm face trying to one-up his neighbor. Meanwhile, a well-dressed mom is breaking the group record for time keeping a plate spinning. They didn’t notice her, but she looked mighty proud. The viejita sitting next to us gazed on with a smile long past when we left.

And this being said:

In Barcelona, there exists a time machine. A time machine…where children of all ages can rollerblade down narrow shaded boulevards, and sit at metal tables after nine PM and hold conversations without cellphones on the table, instead killing themselves with cigarettes like the “good old days.” The air is offensively sticky and thick, but the air is electric with humans padding up the cobbled streets, of laughter, of glasses clinking and motos revving.

I love Barcelona. I love the bulging tiled tourist traps crafted by Gaudi. I love the random bits of foie that make their way to the top of tapas and the giant old markets that still sprinkle the city. They are made of iron and glass, like a fine French train station, and usually most of the stalls are closed. This doesn’t bother me. I don’t even buy much because it’s an inflated price, although the man who sold me the most beautiful peach-colored peaches (which is surprisingly novel since I realized most peaches are actually kind of rosy), that man was very nice.

The Spanish have taken to drinking vermouth since the global downturn - it’s 15% alcohol for the same price as a small beer. We found out the shameful tourist way that drinking vermouth any time other than after church is not smiled at. But then, from my perspective, do we really need to wait until after church to drink a strange refreshing drink? For all those agnostics out there, you have my permission to drink all the stuff you want. But not sangria, probably. This is really taboo in Barcelona.

What is not taboo over here in the land of Christmas poop logs (not for discussing now) is the Catalan legend of Saint Eulalia, who has quite a lot of real estate in the Old Town. Believed to be a witch, or a devil, or something quite bad, this young, naked girl was thrown in a barrel of nails and rolled down a hill.

And she lived. Not only did she live, apparently they guard tried to kill her like 12 more times, and then they cut off her head. Then, she died. So there are churches and streets and mosaics of her all over. If you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t even know.

We spend a lot of time trying to figure out where this story could have come from. But really it doesn’t matter, because Barcelona has got it going on so good, they can tell whatever crackpot tales they want.