It’s not a capital. It speaks a language known only to nine million people. It’s not short on attractions, but has no Museum of Modern Art. Its nightlife lacks the dynamism of Berlin, and its history is mostly one of repression. While it’s all the rage to compare its dining scene with Paris, no one’s taken in, least of all the Catalans. So why, when cities flit in and out of vogue, is Barcelona so eternally popular?
The simple answer is that the city has a panache that is all its own, and which, for many, embodies the Catalan character. It’s often said that this fiercely nationalistic race is a successful synthesis of seny, a blend of nous and pragmatism, and rauxa, a passionate intensity that flirts with madness. To witness it, gaze at the architecture of Gaudí (Sagrada Familia, Casa Milà, Park Güell), the radical theatre of La Fura dels Baus, or the paintings of Joan Miró (Fundació Joan Miró).
It’s a cliché, but one that works for this most multifaceted of cities. Here, a radiant Pop art sculpture by Roy Lichtenstein towers alongside a sombre neoclassical arcade; serried ranks of apartment blocks in the Eixample sometimes explode in a proliferation of Modernista colour; and the festivals involve both the sardana, a sedate national dance, and the correfoc, a reckless, firework-wielding rampage through the streets.
At times, the city is so captivated by all things modern that counterculture becomes the new culture; the fanfare announcing the latest cyber-art festival is still lingering on the wind as it’s suddenly pronounced passé. Even so, Barcelona never turns its back on its past. Much of its appeal stems from a respect for its heritage that gives it the best preserved medieval quarter in Europe. You could spend a day mooching around this labyrinth, escaping the heat in shadowy alleyways, while seagulls wheel overhead in an azure sky, without ever feeling the need to tick off museums or head for the beach.
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