Every day in Barcelona, I see someone crying on the street.
Or at least, it’s clear they have been crying very recently. The other day, it was a pregnant woman leaning against the wall in Poble Sec outside what I assumed was her apartment building. Long skirt, looked about 34. Had she stepped out to get some space after a fight?
Or the woman in heels, miniskirt, mascara dripping, walking in Sant Antoni at 8 am in the morning, I can only assume in a direction away from her lover’s apartment. Did the fight begin the night before, at a club somewhere, or only just this morning?
I have yet to cry in the street, but there have been sad days. Life does follow you to other countries, along with all its sadnesses. A few weeks ago, I was walking near the Gothic Quarter, feeling down, when I passed another woman crying, this time with her boyfriend walking beside her, looking frustrated and embarrassed. Another relationship turned sour.
I thought, right now in Barcelona, there are tens of thousands of people on vacation so happy to have paid thousands of euros for a plane ticket and a few nights of accommodation, just so they can walk down this street I’m walking on now.
In fact, there are 15 million tourists who visit Barcelona each year—41,000 per day.
In general, I try to stay away from the big tourist areas. People ask me if I’ve been squirted with a water gun. Well, no, because I’m not dining on bad paella on La Rambla in knee-high white socks and tennis shoes. Nor am I gawking at my cell phone screen pointed up at Casa Milà on the Passeig de Gracia trying to take the same photo as the other three hundred people.
No one who lives in a tourist hub spends that much time doing touristy things. In ten years living in Washington D.C., I visited the Lincoln Memorial, my favorite of all the memorials, no more than three or four times. I visited the National Gallery about once a year, but only to beeline it directly to the Rothko collection. The White House? Congress? Never once got a tour.
My own hometown of Santa Fe, New Mexico, is also a tourist spot. The city receives about 2 million tourists annually. When I was a reporter there, I lived quite close to the historic center, which meant I couldn’t avoid at least some of the 5,500 tourists a day wandering up and down the Spanish colonial streets in search of turquoise jewelry or Native American art.
I visit my family in Santa Fe around once a year—and yet (this is actually embarrassing to admit), I’ve never once been inside the city’s most-visited tourist attraction, the Meow Wolf immersive art space. Just can’t be bothered. Also, I don’t really like “immersive” art (but give me the Rothkos).
But back to the crying. A tourist city is still a city, and a city contains all the myriad shades of human drama and emotion.
I’ve been living in Catalunya for two years, so I’m well past the “I’ve moved to Europe!” honeymoon stage. The oh my God I can’t believe this is my life stage (for a good example, see my September 2023 post, Day drinking and endless croissants).
I’ve struggled. I’ve beat my fists against the Spanish bureaucracy. I’ve failed and failed again at things I should be good at. I’ve felt like a child, a beginner. I’ve felt alienated and alone as well as connected and accepted. Beautiful relationships have come into my life, and also ended.
So even though I don’t wish to participate in what
.Ink calls the “European Dream Industrial Complex,” still, I think I can say this without rose-colored glasses: if you’re going to be sad, Barcelona is a beautiful place to be while you’re at it. Very unlike some other cities I know (here’s looking at you, New York).Beauty is a strange thing in that way. When I see it in nature, I think: maybe there is a God after all, who’s to say? But when I see it in a built environment, when I see beauty made from human hands, like one sees walking around any number of Barcelona neighborhoods, I think: I am welcome here.
Welcome to stand and gaze up at those ornate art nouveau balconies, the vaguely Parisian architectural details, welcome to stroll as slowly as I dare down a pedestrian streetscape, shaded by large trees and surrounded by history, welcome to sit by myself for a beer or a coffee and just people watch. Anyway what were these Catalan and Spanish architects thinking, if not that they wished for us to be here and gaze upon their works?
When I see an ugly city, I don’t feel welcome. I feel I must do my business and get out as quickly as possible. An urban environment built for cars naturally feels this way, almost by definition. Most neighborhoods in most cities in the U.S. are like this, though there are exceptions. There is no leisurely strolling down a Detroit street taken at random.
When I cry in the street in Barcelona, if I cry in the street, I will do so knowing that a croissant and a coffee are only a few steps away, or a cheap house vermut, a copa or caña. I will do so knowing I can walk it off in the first place. Walk up the hill toward Montjuic if I have to, walk until I have a view of the whole city, and I can sit on the hillside and cry some more if I need to.
Besides, the southern European countries are all totally fine with emotions, and the open expression thereof. The streets of Barcelona are teeming with Latinas, with Italians, with Spanish people from every corner of Spain, the Andalucians, the Galicians, even Madrileños. Emotions are worn on the sleeve.
My stoic American spirit has had to learn to express emotion. Like many boys where I come from, I was told that boys don’t cry. Not them, and not me. And for many years, I never did.
But things change, often helped about by the places and environments we surround ourselves with. So yes, Barcelona is a fine and good place to cry. As good as any.
Travel writing how travel writing should be. Thanks for sharing.
Let's hope none of the 'travel content' people will find this inspiring and publish a listicle of "7 Best Cities in Europe to Cry Your Heart Out"
Lisbon is also a great place to cry. 😊😭