Tales from Barcelona 4

Chapter 2: Under the Shadow of the Arc de Triomf, part one

Living in Manchester means the novelty of tapas wore off many years ago, once a glut of establishments realised they can sell piddling amounts of food for massively inflated prices to gullible customers convinced they're trying something exotic. For example, the following is a list of what £25 of my hard-earned money got me during a recent trip to a tapas restaurant in Chorlton:

1 chunk of chorizo
2 chunks of fried potato
2 bites of chicken stew
2 bites of lamb stew
1 calamari ring
Some bread
2 pints

Money well spent, I'm sure you'll agree. So is eating tapas in Spain a revelation that words can barely do justice? Certainly not in terms of taste; despite my varied slurs, Manchester is capable enough of delivering delicious tapas (and it's not like many of the dishes are particularly complex to put together in the first place). It's just that it always feels so forced. You can replicate the food, but you can't match the experience of actually being in a foreign country, nor can you benefit from the decent weather, and whilst it would be foolish to assume that eating tapas in Barcelona is as authentic as it was before the place became such a massive tourist hotspot, there's still a value to sitting outside in the sun, drinking beer and eating what are essentially bar snacks as the city bustles around you.

After arriving at the hotel and dumping our bags that's exactly what we set out to do. The nearest spot for it was Rambla del Poblenou, which proved to be everything La Rambla isn't; quiet and unhurried, the closest point of comparison in Manchester would probably be Burton Road: an area with all the local amenities you need and an abundance of food and drink options, albeit somewhere you wouldn't want to spend every night.

The winner of the evening was La Buena Vida (which translates as "the good life," I believe), a little bar and restaurant helpfully subtitled Oh My God Tapas! that delivered us artichoke crisps and an inexplicable dish of gyoza-style liver dumplings with a strawberry, paprika, and creme fraiche dip (all of which worked very well together). Before that, we'd sampled various Spanish sausages; afterward, we made a decision that in retrospect might have been influenced by our alcohol intake, strolling into a fish place and ordering a platter of deep fried seafood. After the trauma of our Ryanair flight, it was the perfect way to unwind.

*   *   *

The next day we mooched around the city, collected our festival wristbands, and ate and drank plenty more before making our way to the Arc de Triomf, where a free gig marked the opening of Primavera 2012. We caught the majority of Jeremy Jay's set, which was entertaining enough, proving a solid accompaniment to the slowly setting sun and the cold beers we'd bought from a nearby shop filled with revellers who'd had the same idea, eschewing the expensive on-site stalls. His brand of alt-pop is probably best described as "infectious," given that a few of his songs are still stuck in my head over a month later, the highlight being "Caught in a Whirl," which is basically a Wes Anderson movie distilled into four minutes of evocative music.

Having seen The Wedding Present tear through Bizarro in Berlin a couple of years back, I had pretty high hopes for their latest run-through of a classic album. In comparison, Seamonsters is a much slower and heavier affair, the sort of thing Lou Barlow sang about in "Gimme Indie Rock." This worked against it in the early going, with the sound a little muddy to begin with, but things quickly improved, allowing the material to become as powerful and imposing as it is on record. Gedge was as on as ever, singing songs of heartbreaks twenty years gone, breathing new life into their meaning and validating their existence by holding on to them.

*   *   *

I first caught The Walkmen, when they supported Idlewild at the big Academy in 2002, and was so impressed I talked one of the members of the band into selling me a copy of their debut album Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me is Gone at a slightly reduced price due to a lack of funds on my part. Since then, it's been a case of diminishing returns; neither that record nor any of their subsequent efforts have ever lived up to that transcendental first experience. I give each new album a shot upon release, typically enjoying it but not being moved by it in any way. I like the idea behind the band more than the execution, the way they're described on paper more than the music they produce. To my ears there is an emptiness at the heart of their music that I just can't move beyond, and with a few exceptions their output leaves me cold. Still, in marked contrast to my All Tomorrow's Parties 2010 experience (stay for "The Rat," leave immediately afterward), they struck a chord with me this time. The vastness of the setting gave their songs space to breathe, allowing their grace and elegance to shine the way it deserves to. Maybe I'll come to love them yet.

*   *   *

Deciding to call it a night so as not to burn ourselves out before the festival proper, we headed to the nearest Metro station, where we were lucky enough to hear a busker play the most approximate cover of "You Shook Me All Night Long" of all time. Meanwhile, on the station platform a big screen played basketball highlights, and under the influence I decided that I missed my calling coaching the sport. Before heading back to the hotel, we couldn't resist another trip to La Buena Vida, stuffing ourselves with Iberian kebab and the most delicious chicken strips in the world. Even though we didn't need the food, it seemed ridiculous to order drinks and not grab a bite to eat. It's what they do in Barcelona, after all, and why go against tradition?

Tales from Barcelona 3

Interlude: You Get What You Pay For

Ryanair CEO Michael O'Leary hates you, your friends, your family, and your favourite childhood pet, and will continue to do so no matter how often you pay to use his airline.

Every time someone books a Ryanair flight, Baby Jesus cries.

Ryanair's terms and conditions includes sections dedicated to its "right to cancel flights on whims and fancies," its "right to fly you to an airport other than the one advertised, or to a different country altogether if the mood takes us," and its "right to plant drugs in your luggage if Ryanair staff are bored." The terms and conditions document runs some 500 pages, and is designed to rob customers not just of their rights, but of their dignity.

Ryanair specifically requests that airport security frisks its customers particularly roughly, regardless of whether or not they set off the metal detector.

Ryanair pilots spend the entirety of each flight idly daydreaming about anally fisting you without lubrication. Ryanair co-pilots think about what deep fried kitten would taste like.

It is forbidden to look Ryanair stewards and stewardesses directly in the eye. Any breach of protocol regarding this rule will result in the guilty party being ejected from the plane. Whilst midair.

All products sold on Ryanair flights contain nuts. That includes duty free items such as alcohol, perfumes, and stuffed toys. In addition, the stewards and stewardesses rub every seat with nuts before take-off. O'Leary has hated people with nut allergies ever since a classmate's condition forced the cancellation of a promised school trip to a local cake factory.

Ryanair charges its customers for breathing, with one complete in-and-out cycle costing 10p. The cost rises to 50p per cycle if the oxygen masks drop (supply and demand in action). In the event of the plane plummeting to the earth and wiping out everyone on board, passengers' billing information is recorded on the black box, and the debt is passed on to the deceased individuals' families.

O'Leary caused controversy when claiming the ash clouds that disrupted travel in April 2010 were "mythical." In the past, he has made similar statements concerning armadillos, table tennis, Margaret Thatcher, the Great Fire of London, and Lithuania.

There is at least a 50% chance that the next time I fly it will be with Ryanair. My greatest hope in life is that one day I'll be able to get that percentage down to zero.

Tales from Barcelona 2

Chapter 1: Me and Barcelona

It started six years ago, as I exited the Metro station outside of Sagrada Familia to be confronted with the most amazing structure I have ever seen with my own eyes, an insane church straight from the mind of one of the few men worthy of the tag "genius." It ended with a classical version of "The Winner Takes It All" playing in the underground, followed by the ABBA version soundtracking my last minutes in the airport a few hours later. Of course, that's assuming that the story has come to a close, which seems unlikely. Chances are I'll find a reason to return to Barcelona.

*   *   *

In many ways, Barcelona is something of a mess, a perennial work-in-progress, the spirit of which is best embodied by Antoni Gaudi's aforementioned masterpiece, which started construction in 1882 and won't be finished before 2026 at the earliest. A sprawling mass of high rises that seems eternally stuck in the 20th century, punctuated only occasionally by breathtaking architecture and the odd modern glass structure, still trapped beneath the weight of a dictatorship that came to an end less than 40 years ago. The constant regeneration that has occurred since then has had a relatively limited impact, and in many respects Barcelona is a relic.

But a city should never be defined solely by appearances. Barcelona is one of the most alive places you could ever hope to spend time in; not in the "never sleeps" sense, like New York or Berlin, but in the sense that during the peak hours of human activity it is absolutely relentless. It hasn't been neutered like so many major cities; tourist traps exist, but wandering off the beaten track pays off big time, and any given back alley can be a hub of activity, home to an amazing restaurant or a blink-and-you'll-miss-it bar. I could spend an entire post elucidating about the grid system much of the city was built in. And although the regeneration moves at a slow pace, it remains a sign of the constant evolution that is likely to continue well into the future. Barcelona has a character completely of its own, and for that it should be cherished.

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On my first visit I fell in love with the place, even after accidentally finding myself on a date with another guy, being assaulted by a prostitute whilst walking along La Rambla, and spending the early hours of one morning asleep on a bench. Or maybe because of those things; a city isn't worth much if you don't have stories to tie you to it. I tried to fit everything in - the Picasso museum, the Joan Miro Foundation, the Nou Camp, Parc Guell, Montjuic - and despite my best efforts only managed to scratch the surface. Still, the impression I was left with was overwhelmingly favourable.

That goodwill was wiped out almost entirely by my second visit, although I'll be the first to admit that I got the mechanics of the trip wrong from start to finish. Much like this year, the primary reason for flying out was the Primavera music festival. However, at times it was disastrous: flights with Ryanair at ungodly hours of the day from Liverpool to "Barcelona" Reus, which is actually close to two hours outside of the city centre; a ridiculous schedule of moving from hostel to apartment to hotel to hostel; the combination of the above conspiring to deny me the time needed to enjoy the beats and rhythms of the city. Add in some poorly thought out food choices and some truly brutal hangovers, and the good times - the actual festival, basically - were contained in one tiny part of Barcelona, rendering the rest of the holiday superfluous. Still, Primavera was enough fun to convince me to return.

What follows is primarily the story of my third visit, although I reserve the right to veer from a linear path in order to ramble on about other experiences - and about nothing in particular - whenever the mood takes me. Hopefully you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed living it.

Tales from Barcelona 1

Prelude: Remembering the Dead

The Cure went on stage at ten fifteen on Friday 1st June for their Primavera 2012 set, and they stayed there for the next thirty hours. In the buildup to the festival, the weak-willed promoters had continually acquiesced to Robert Smith's repeated demands for more time, eventually allowing him and his band to both headline the second night and close the third and final night without interruption.

The Cure played many of their obscure songs, b-sides, and album tracks more than once, whilst dropping in their hits at a rate of one approximately every two hours. They saved "Boys Don't Cry" for last. "Play Boys Don't Cry" shouted every single Primavera attendee at least once during the course of the band's set. "Not yet," Robert Smith replied calmly each time. "We're going to play another mostly instrumental cut from one of our less popular albums. We know that's what you want to hear really."

The thousands of loyal Cure fans in attendance never did give up hope that they would hear "Boys Don't Cry," and remained rooted in front of the San Miguel stage for the entirety of the performance. Their happiness was diminished, however, when they realised that the band's selfishness had robbed them of the final day of the festival. En masse, they unleashed their anger along the coast of East Barcelona, razing much of it to the ground. Many of the male rioters were visibly in tears, softly singing Cure songs to themselves and repeating the question "why does Robert Smith hate me?" to no-one in particular. It took three days to get the violence under control, and amidst all the destruction over 50,000 people died.

Their blood is on your hands, Robert Smith. Their blood is on your hands.

The story that follows is dedicated to their memory.