I booked a highly recommended restaurant, which fell somewhat short of our high expectations. Patatas Bravas Viana style, Burrata, pink tuna dices and a full plate of marbled jamón ibérico were delicious, but crowded on a tiny table a hand’s breadth from the next and smothered in hot, stuffy kitchen exhaust (the exhaust hood and/or aircon were broken, likely both), overstrained service and the noise level of a bar. That being said, the food was excellent and we’d be back on a quiet day, if such implosibility exists, in winter.

We fled before dessert, sweaty and smelling of other guests’ ribeye, and caught up on dessert at Artisa, a stone’s throw from Viana. Gelato in hand, we sauntered down to the waterfront and on Rambla de Mar had to tiptoe and shuffle around blankets on which North African hawkers were selling cheap trash. Halfway onto the wooden pier leading to the Maremagnum Shoppingmall, I was so fed up, being forced to wade through fake Vuitton caps, equally fake Raybans and minions dancing to pop (I was quite fascinated by these tiny puppets really as I still have no idea how they moved a few centimetres above the ground and without visible strings attached) that I struggled to appreciate the beauty of the lights dancing on the water in harmony with the sway of the yachts.

We fled once more, sidestepping blankets, sharp elbows and blaring stereos all the way back to the Edifici Port de Barcleona and turned right onto Moll de Bosch i Alsina. It took us only a minute or two to leave the turmoil behind, and I was amazed by how few people were willing to venture these few steps farther. Sparkling lights from the harbour reflected in narrow beams on the water and the street lamps above illuminated the palms throwing iconic shadows on the promenade at regular intervals. We were able to stargaze despite the halo of light pollution, and the only sound disrupting the muted background babble of the ever busy city was dance music coming from a stereo.

If someone would ask me what I like best about Southern Europeans, it’s their love for dancing at night in public spaces. 

North of the tapas and pizza equator we’re too dull, self-conscious and simply unable to move with this much confidence, talent and enthusiasm. The fast Salsa and Bachata rhythms were galloping to catch up with the endless swings and swirls of the dancers turning so fast I didn’t need a camera to visualise motion blur. My expectations had been skyrocket-high, and Barcelona did not deliver on that first day, not by far. I also felt that we were aggravating the problem of this tourist-overload by adding two more bodies – us – to the crowd.

The next day we explored La Ribera and El Born and by the end of day two, another pistachio gelato in hand, and more street-wise in avoiding the crowds, the sunbaked walls oozed some of the famous Barcelona-vibes. The same laid-back Southern-European atmosphere that you’d also find in Italy, only a little younger maybe, and more metropolitan. But not until an early morning run on day three, and only after I passed the two dozen intoxicated youngsters littering Carrer de Balmes, and an ambulance administering aid, diagonally parked across the footpath, did Barcelona reveal much of what I’d missed so far.

While I’m on the subject of littering: to read that tourists pee in the streets (who the hell does that?) and leave piles of rubbish is revolting. But apparently this is not an isolated Barcelona phenomenon, and unfortunately not even isolated to big tourist cities. I very well remember my Mum’s lengthy rant about freedom campers in New Zealand. Who the hell, and I apologise for the necessary swear words, poops just outside somebody’s front yard in a residential area? Her friend dances around telltale heaps on tiptoes, hastily covered with toilet paper, in her garden on most mornings.

As I raced down the chewing gum dotted wavy lines on the Ramblas at 7:30 on a weekday morning, there was so much beauty in the normally suffocating boulevard. Then to top the treat to the early-morning Ramblas, I fell in love with the metropole’s outstanding waterfront promenade, a runners’ paradise. Still pondering the hidden agenda of the headless fish at breakfast, I discovered the amazing croissants aux amandes at Crusto, a little bakery around the corner on Calle Valencia, that became our breakfast joint for four days running. I gave up on the fish, instead wondering whether I’d found culinary traces of Catalonia’s decade as a republic under French sovereignty during the Franco-Spanish war in the 17th century.

I had asked my friend, a former Erasmus student in San Sebastian and repeat visitor to Barcelona for the one highlight that in her opinion best embodies Barcelona’s distinctiveness. ‚Gaudi,’ she answered, referring to the Catalan architect and his exceptionally creative and eclectic works. Thus we walked through Eixample’s neat street grid and pointed our cameras, with countless others, at buildings of unusual organic shapes, curved stonework with stained glass, mosaic tiles, and wrought-iron balconies. All of them very colourful and unique, and unlike any building I’d seen so far, but I was not much enthused by this most unusual style of architecture. The only Gaudi building I’d be tempted to see again is the Sagrada Familia. The epitome of uniqueness and non-compliance, I thought it rather messy and bizarre on the outside. Particularly as with ongoing construction yellow cranes pointed in all directions and scaffolds encircled unfinished towers.

George Orwell called it, ‚one of the most hideous buildings in the world’. I wouldn’t, for inside it was the most beautiful church I have ever seen. I’m an atheist and (maybe wrongfully) imagine a church should be welcoming, full of colour and light, breathing cheerfulness and modesty. Sagrada Familia was the first church that embodied this belief, except for its lack of humility. The grandeur and the altar crucifix seemed to be the only concessions to traditional churches. At least they put a floating canopy above the latter, decorated with grapes and vines and what appeared to be fairylights, but I have yet to understand a religion’s obsession with showcasing a slain corpse on a cross instead of happiness and joy. It seems macabre to me.

Towards the end of our 30.000 steps today I was cursing whoever thought of cutting street corners (Xamfràns) in Eixample. That inconsiderate certain somebody obviously thought it okay to punish health and environmentally conscious goody two-shoes to facilitate the turning and parking of environmental sin, slash wonderfully useful cars. Wanting to improve our photography skills we booked a tour with Nico on day four. From Buenos Aires and Barcelonian by choice, Nico has lived in El Born for many years. He is a journalist and photographer specialising in documentaries, and has worked all over the world, mostly within his profession, but also including a hands-on stint making the popular Vermicelles desert in Switzerland. Vermicelles is a chestnut puree that looks like a heap of sandworm poop, and as to its taste I’d rather not comment.

We followed Nico for six hours and captured the Boqueria, Raval and El Born concentrating on lighting, colour, ISO and exposure time. Waiting for a dark haired lady in a speckled white apron to lean into the pool of light illuminating piles of dead fish from above, I asked Nico how he photographed individual people. Not from a technical viewpoint, but more regarding the ethical issue. I liked his practical approach. Nico said that most people do not mind, and using common sense works in other situation such as eye contact and avoiding people that may consider photography a privacy invasion. Identifying the latter obviously requires some more experience, which I lack, seeing that the next day at Boqueria, the saleslady at one of the meat stalls nearly leapt over the depleted counter, as I tried to capture the bloody redness of the few remaining chunks of dead meat in white plastic trays.

Several sources warned us about Raval, west of the Ramblas, being more dangerous for tourists and a notorious red-light district. We cannot confirm anything of the kind (until 11pm at least and there were some sexshops) and it’s Nico’s favourite barrio so we went there next. It is less polished, and there is great cultural diversity, even by Barcelonian standards. Fewer tourists, tiny craft shops, outrageous street skating on and around one long ledge in front of the MACBA, colourful streetart, and a misshapen fat cat on Rambla del Raval add colour and life to this quarter. Evidently I’m no fan of Fernando Botero.