emotionalmarkup

To me, a city’s plazas are the nodes that connect its main parades and sinewy streets. Life channels in to their spaces, performs a static dance of business or leisure and is then pumped back out towards all directions and possibilities.

Barcelona like many European cities has a variety of plazas, old and new, that each surround unique landmarks and attract different people. Each has their stereotypes - the tourists mostly stay on one plaza and the prostitutes and drug dealers hang in another - but the truth is that the apartment blocks and ancient walls that make up the plazas see all types of people and situations.

The first square tourists usually set eyes on is Plaza Catalunya. It’s a concrete disc that is at the hub of tourist and business activity in Barcelona. It is situated at the summit of La Rambla away from the sea. Apart from the pigeons and the old men playing chess there is not much to see here. You’ll probably pass it once or twice on your way up Rambla Catalunya or if you’re walking towards Paseig de Gracia but there’s no real reason to spend your precious time being there. Even its status as a “square” is dubious. It’s merely a roof for the busy metro and ferrocarril stations underneath upon which someone had the decency to cover with pavement and a few ornaments. As a testament to its lack of soul, the shopping centre Corte de Ingles looms from the northern side mocking the entire population with its overpriced goods and ubiquitous marketing campaigns.

Plaza Reale is possibly the most popular square (next to Plaza de la Catedral) with tourists. It houses bars, cafes and nightclubs and a convenient fountain for meeting friends. On the way home from work one day I saw a drunk lady drop her pants and take a shit. Onlookers, mostly tourists, were suitably shocked and I heard some couple remark that they were staying in Dorset for summer next year. Yet this is a rare occurrence and the police are very skilled at moving vagrants on these days, particularly if they fear that some faecal street painting might be about to go down.

Naturally, being situated off La Rambla, things can be expensive here but on a summers day, but after a few hours at the beach its rather pleasant to have a beer in the square while you gawk at people with oversized cameras. Some evening they will even throw a free live concert. A great bar to check out in Plaza Real is Pipa Club, hidden away three floors up from crowds. The only evidence that this bar exists from the street is a small yellow doorbell with a picture of a pipe. When inside it’s not much too look at: there are dainty smoking rooms which you can’t enter anyway and various smoking paraphernalia. But having a relaxing drink when the multitudes are beneath you is enjoyable and for where it is, it’s not that expensive.

The plaza most close to my heart was right near my house. Calle Avinyó branches off towards a square called Plaza George Orwell, named after the famous English author of 1984 and Down and Out in Paris and London. There is an easy connection to Big Brother when you see the signs informing you that the local authorities amuse themselves by monitoring the square from every angle 24 hours a day. And given some of the stuff that goes down here, I suspect that some of the footage would make any reality television program seem like a My Little Pony Tea party.

Plaza George Orwell is commonly known as Plaza Tripi among locals. The first thing you notice is the twisted, wiry sculpture that overlooks the public toilet. Directing your gaze upwards you’ll see six-story dwellings the inhabitants of which invariably have one or two marijuana plants on their balconies. Passers through include the Spanish equivalent of ferals: black clothed, bearded, dread locked youths sporting the obligatory piercings and often handling two or three mongrels; people stopping off on their journeys to roll joints, homeless people quarrelling over a brick of Don Simon wine. Some stay for a few days, others I saw every day. They still ask me for cigarettes even though I’ve told them every day for six months that I don’t smoke.

Depending upon to whom you are talking, Plaza Tripi is disgusting, cool, loud, scary, relaxed, fun or unusual. Given that in summer the streets are filled with people boozing, smoking, dancing, singing and shouting it’s probably not the most peaceful place to live but you don’t elect to live in the middle of Barcelona for a slice of tranquillity.

It comes with all the necessities - a kebab shop, two or three convenience stores, bakery, vegetarian cafe, a few bars: my favourite, Oviso, where they make great mojitos and sandwiches. It is run by a curt albino - possibly English of German extraction - who might attend to you on the third plea for service. There’s also fruit store run by friendly Chinese people where, if you’re a regular, you’ll often be treated to a free bushel of basil. The bakery sells a mean rustica (crusty baguette) and on weekends a second-hand bookseller occasionally sets up a few tables of used books. The owner is a pleasant fellow who will let you exchange that book in Catalan you mistakenly bought for a more suitable one in Castellano. It was quite a treat to return from the beach on a summer’s day, still wrapped in a wet towel, and browse the literature on offer while munching on fresh strawberries from the fruit shop.