A convention in Barcelona. Such luck. A stroll from the Barcelona International Convention Centre (CCIB) to a reception in Barceloneta. Even more luck. There were raggedy kids playing soccer on the sand in contrast with gleaming white private yachts in Port Olimpic. The kids seemed to know more about tripping, diving and goal celebration rituals than football - maybe this is football?
I was enjoying a Magum ice-cream when two utterly naked men walked past me. Joggers, walkers, cyclists and tourists all looked after they passed, cameras capturing the safer image. It reminded me of a story from a colder place, The Forty Foot, once a nude men-only bathing place in Dublin, where my father as a child thought that being aware of pickpockets (an issue in Barcelona) meant keeping an eye out for a nasty type of fish.
Barcelona was a really nice place to arrive to. Six days later I was less enamoured. The freedom of expression in Gaudi-type architecture undermines urban planning and in conjunction with hideous Franco-era Stalinist style buildings, it feels disturbingly anarchic. Been there, done that, thank you.
POR FAVOR! £11 FOR 5.5 KM
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