La Anciana, the Busker, and Mr. Marilyn

To minibreak with your class in Barcelona in your third year of high school is to open up a madcap box of chaos. Especially when said high school is located in England, or, more specifically, inner city Birmingham, where the scenery is a blend of grey and brown, with the occasional flash of blue from frequently speeding police vehicles.

Needless to say, I stood out. At the time, I was a lanky, pasty fourteen-year-old whose mother had insisted on packing only jeans, three-quarter length sleeve shirts, a pair of Shoe Zone trainers (that hadn’t yet been broken in) and a tiny rucksack, for a city trip which, at that time of year (mid-May), was reaching highs of 37°c.

On the first day, being unusually tall for my age, I felt like a freaky, sweaty mess ambling about on one of the busiest streets in Spain, La Rambla.

La Rambla is notorious for its music, street food and handmade nick-nacks: the perfect tourist trap.

At this point, I was surprised to find that my mother hadn’t equipped me with a small sign to hang around my neck saying, ‘Mug Me’. What with Spain’s petty crime rate being almost alarmingly high, I quickly learnt to wear my bag around my front and under my jacket.

Despite the threat of imminent street robbery, Barcelona is undeniably both exquisite and fascinating.

The buildings—most of which were designed by the famous Catalonian artist, Antoni Gaudí—look something akin to a Dalí painting: The stone balconies and tiled roofs twist and slant, seemingly melting under the sweltering heat and leaving visitors wondering if they might have inhaled too much incense or drank one glass of Sangria too many. A mirage of stone and tile and sky.

When looking for a specific example of this, one need look no further than La Sagrada Familia, Gaudí’s unfinished masterpiece located in La Carrer Mallorca, one of Barcelona’s many districts. Pope Benedict XVI christened it a minor basilica and it is not hyperbole when I say it is unlike anything I have ever seen before.

The same could also be said about the people. There is an unusual sense of familiarity when interacting with the Catalonian natives. I distinctly remember the anciana (Spanish for old woman) who worked in the hostel we were staying at (who spoke remarkably good English), referring affectionately to our mob as her niños dulces (Spanish for sweet children) when she welcomed us back in the evening after the long days of metro rides and treks across the city.

However, there was one instance in which I found the locals a little too friendly. Imagine this, if you will: a 14-year-old girl (whose outfit is completely and totally inappropriate for the Summer climate) is walking down one of the main streets of the city. Her friends have fallen behind her as they squabble over whose gelato tastes the best, while she strides forward in search of water.

Now what’s this distraction to the left? There’s a woman standing on one of the high balconies. She waves at the girl, who, being properly prim and British, waves back, briefly pausing her quest in order to do so. As the girl gets a good look at the woman, she realises that not only is the woman dressed as Marilyn Monroe, but she is, in fact, a he and the balcony this Masculine Miss Marilyn is posing on, is situated on the second floor of a building positioned directly above a gaudy, neon red sign stating: “EROTIC MUSEUM.”

Yes. Apparently, Barcelona has no qualms about expressing a certain artistic freedom that, as I have grown up, I have come to admire—though it was a little jarring at the time.

That vibrant, raunchy, unapologetic self-expression that I have come to envy as I now pursue my own career in the arts.

That is what Barcelona is: not just a city, but a work of art.

Sure, the architecture and the weather are both visually stunning, but it’s so easy to fall in love with the atmosphere of the place above all else.

You’d be amazed at how often, years later, I think of the anciana and of Mr. Marilyn and of the busker that spent from dawn till dusk at the subway station across the street from our hostel.

Every now and then, I’ll find myself reciting the tunes he played over in my mind; just the chords he played on his guitar, soft and clear as he sang along in a foreign tongue.

It’s not something I could ever describe (ironic, I know) and I’ve tried, honestly. But trying to describe the busker’s music- the heartbeat of the Barcelona I found and loved and left—is like trying to describe colour. It’s near impossible.