Breakfast, just our luck, a bakery special, three croissants for 1.40, a bit chewy but sustenance none-the-less.
We walked slowly, taking in the sites, people, sounds and smells. This city is buzzing, happy and hot. Las Ramblas, a 1km pedestrian strip, lined with the thick greenness of summer trees and mimes painted with purples, golds and the warm colours of street art and fantasy. A gymnast leapt and somersaulted over an eyes-pinched-closed and grinning Vicky and myself. On arrival at the ocean, we perched on the port’s edge, wet from a minor water fight, but still baking hot. Ratty pigeons, tourist photos, boats and harbour noises.
Some liquorice for energy and a new pair of jeans for Paul (nothing like those 4 specials) and we were ready to continue our conquering of this Roman-founded city, painted by Gaudi, Picasso and Dali. Occasionally one finds a spot that is so good it’s worth moving home for, just to be there. Our chosen lunch-time feeding corner – Bo de B – was just such a spot
It’s flavours and atmosphere are still rich and tastable. Chicken salad times three. Plates the size of splayed basketballs, the array of vegetable and sauces endless. We left stuffed and wound our way around narrow streets of the Barri Gothic quarter.
The rest of the day was about street artists, sweet shops, bookshops, more Ramblas, pasta and ready-made sauce. Then hours of balcony, night city sounds, the smell of Paul’s hand-rolled cigarettes and discussions about futures and careers.
Barcelona rocks. Why be anywhere else? Oh yes: Morocco…
