I walk the streets of Barcelona. The air smells of salt from the sea, but also of freshly baked croissants from bakeries on street corners.
The street leads me to La Boqueria, a market that pulses with life. I walk in and immediately I am overwhelmed by the smells – fresh oranges, cut mangoes, spices coming from stands full of colorful jars and sacks. People are everywhere, negotiating with sellers, trying a piece of jamon, choosing the sweetest strawberries.
I take a glass of freshly squeezed passion fruit juice and feel the cool, thick taste slide down my throat, refreshing me, as I walk between the stalls.
Outside, along the Rambla, vendors set up their canvases directly on the pavement. There are bags, souvenirs, cheap sunglasses on them, and on every corner someone sells cold para negro - dark chocolate with hazelnuts that melts on the tongue. I take a piece and while slowly nibbling it, I watch people pass by – tourists with maps in hand, older Catalans in light shirts, artists drawing portraits for a few euros.
Above me, between the buildings, hanging ropes are full of towels and laundry fluttering in the gentle breeze. The city breathes, shimmers in the sun, smells of fruit and the sea. Barcelona is not only architecture and art - it is the rhythm of the streets, the voices of the market, the song of the guitar in the distance.
