The smell of sickly sugar hangs heavy in the air as we sidestep past a line of cameras and guidebooks, impatiently queueing across the sun-drenched street for crepes drowned in chocolate and bubble-gum blue ice cream.
La Rambla, the wide, tree-lined boulevard that connects Barcelona’s Placa de Catalunya square with it’s waterfront, has long been established as the city’s most popular street. Yet on a weekend city break with my family, who share my love for a path less travelled, this isn’t the authentic Spanish experience we were hoping for.
The jeers of leery drinkers pour out from the open shutters of a dark, upstairs bar, where they sip from pitchers of sangria with long, multi-coloured straws, whilst young families struggle to navigate through the crowds below. They clutch their bags tightly to their chests and check on their money belts, more concerned about petty thieves than their wide-eyed children in tow.
We wander throughout the street’s bizarre array of cheap souvenirs, which spill out from kiosks to white sheets lining the floor, touting flamenco dancer magnets, FC Barcelona-laden teddy bears and a collection of erotic vegetable seeds.
Heading against the flow of mounting pedestrian traffic, we turn off into a narrow side-street, the sudden shade from towering Mediterranean apartments causing goosebumps to spread across my skin.
Our pace begins to slow and I feel my shoulders relax as we stroll the quiet, cobbled paths, still soapy and wet from the early morning chores of local shopkeepers.
A waft of salty sea washes over us as a short, elderly man, his face tired and leathery, strains to navigate a trolley piled shoulder-high with crates of freshly caught seafood. It’s a strangely welcome relief from La Rambla’s poignant scent of greasy burgers with a lashing of sun cream. His footsteps echo on the stones as he turns down an empty alleyway, wheeling his produce into a restaurant’s back door, ready for the lunchtime tapas trade.
We turn left at a cross-road, then right, unsure of our bearings in the shadowy, maze of streets. A strip of late morning sun streams in from far above, giving light to the over-crowded botanical balconies of fading pastel pink and butter-coloured buildings. Small potted trees sit in front of wooden window shutters and ivy spirals down the delicate iron railings. Bedsheets hang from washing lines between apartments, waving above us in the light breeze.
A church bell chimes once as we pass two locals sitting quietly on rickety bar stools. They sip short, muddy-coloured coffees and roll cigarettes, avoiding our gaze. They have no desire to capitalise on the rare stragglers from the nearby tourist trade.
We might only be a few streets away from La Rambla, but it seems as if we are in an entirely different city. This isn’t Barcelona anymore, this is Catalonia.