Thursday's Place: La Rambla

La Rambla as it appeared in 1905

I really didn't want to go to Barcelona.  There was nothing there that really interested me, not even that gaudy cathedral by Gaudi.  I knew it would be the weekend of the Grand Prix of Spain, but all of those tickets were sold way before my arrival.  It was also the final weekend of the English Premier League season, and I figured I would miss the championship battle between Manchester City and Liverpool, being as I was in the land of Barcelona F.C. and Real Madrid, with jerseys bearing Messi's name for sale in every kiosk.

I was really on my way to Morocco and was really looking forward to seeing a part of Africa that I'd never visited.  I was fatigued after the two-week sail across the Atlantic; the waves during our stop in the Canary Islands had been unimpressive for surfing, with all I could do was wade in still water with corpulent Europeans.  My wife had already been to Barcelona during her youthful travels, so she wasn't particularly interested, either.  In all, I think what I planned to do in Spain was to take a nap; maybe for a couple of days.

We arrived too early to check into our hotel, which wasn't a surprise, but they checked our luggage and we set off to find a place to eat.  We had already spent the morning on a walking tour of the old part of town, having strolled for over four miles through crowds and statues and Catalan independence protesters and gypsies and pickpockets, and were hungry and ready to sit in one place for awhile.  That's when it happened.

I had forgotten what slow food was like.  I had been trying to keep a schedule since I had left the U.S., and had been keeping a busy schedule right before I left, and suddenly found myself with no place to go and nothing planned to do.  It was like when a motorboat that suddenly cuts power and drifts to a stop.  There is a moment when the backwash hits the stern, propelling you for a bit, but then all is still.

Over tapas that was delivered in a slow and friendly manner, and over sangria de cava that defeated that sense of backwash, the day, and the next several, was reduced in its tempo.  All that was required, after the slow, long meals, was to walk from one point to another with no plan, agenda, or map.  That's where La Rambla reveals its near-perfection.

It doesn't even cover a mile, shares a broad central pedestrian walkway with the frenetic roadway traffic on its east and west sides, and is filled with every distraction that will serve local population and the increasing numbers of tourists, especially those from the United Kingdom and Ireland.  [More on that below.]

It actually follows the path of the old city's sewage canal, that wide ditch that carried rain water and...other things...from the city's center down into the sea.  In fact, "rambla" is the Catalan word for wadi, a connection that stretches back to the days of Moorish Spain.  [Be honest, you thought La Rambla meant "a place to ramble".  Well, I did.]

La Rambla begins where the old city and new collide, at Placa de Catalunya in the city's center, an area served by a traffic circle that unites most of Barcelona's major streets.  From there, La Rambla becomes less automotive and more pedestrian, as it parallels the Gothic Quarter with its labyrinth of streets, shops, and churches, including some of the older Roman archaeological sites in Europe and the 13th century Barcelona cathedral, a sacred space noted for the thirteen geese that are perpetually kept in its cloister.  [As far as why there are 13 geese, while I heard a variety of explanations, the most plausible was that St Eulàlia, the patron of Barcelona, was martyred at the age of 13.]

As one travels south, La Rambla becomes more secular, as is noticeable in the western area of El Raval, where there are a daunting number of bars, pubs, nightclubs, and other, less easy to categorize, places of entertainment.  As this was the area that traditionally served the off-duty desires of the merchant seamen, one may understand its provenance.

It was here that we found an Irish pub [one of seven Irish pubs in the area] that was televising every single English Premier League soccer football match on a variety of TV sets.  We fell in with a collection of Liverpool fans on holiday and learned the acceptable team song, and some rather rude ones, while enjoying pints of British local.  It was terrific.

The rest of the day and the next were lost in a pleasant haze of paella, tapas, sangria, and the slow, pleasant, life-savoring manner of Barcelona.  When the time came to ferry over to Morocco, not only was a glad to have visited the city, but I really didn't want to leave.

As the popular Spanish man of letters, Federico García Lorca, once said, La Rambla was "the only street in the world which I wish would never end."

Here, enjoy some random views:

Clearly, the Romans were fond of Barcelona, too

Tourists, pilgrims, pickpockets, and the occasional gypsy woman all packed into these alleys

A free upgrade granted us a terrace overlooking El Raval

Lived correctly, life is filled with choice

No reason for the photo, save to serve my fantasy about living in one of those apartments

A reminder that not all is sanguine in Barcelona. There is also the mildly illegal separatist movement for Catalonian independence.

La Rambla, 2019

Either lunch or breakfast, I don't remember.  Maybe dinner.

Ah, paella.

Yeah, it was a dessert, but we didn't save it for a photo.

And now, the footer.

Which is incomplete without a pint.

Rooftop life.