Barcelona, day two: stone and salt

Barcelona, day two: stone and salt

olaf
Church, City
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After a day like yesterday, sleep came easily. Deep, uncomplicated. The kind that resets things properly. For today, the plan was simple and ambitious at the same time: Sagrada Família and the beach. Architecture and horizontality. Stone and salt.

The basilica was easy to reach by metro. Barcelona’s underground system works smoothly, even if it feels louder and more cavernous than Berlin’s, bigger trains, wider tunnels, a fully closed system. Ten rides for ten euros, one ride for two. Since we had plans, the decision was straightforward. Efficiency over philosophy.

Above ground, the reality hit immediately. A long human queue wrapped itself around the construction site of the church that started in 1886 and is now optimistically scheduled for completion around 2040. The building itself is undeniably impressive, huge, detailed, layered with different eras, constantly being restored and reinterpreted. The crowd matched it in scale. We walked one full circle around the exterior, took it in, nodded appreciatively, and decided that was enough. Sometimes distance is the more pleasant way of understanding things.

From there, we shifted direction and pace, heading toward the sea. The weather improved almost on cue. Warm, relaxed, T-shirt conditions, like the rest of the trip. Flip-flops, short trousers, no evening chill to speak of. We threaded our way through the narrow streets of what used to be a fishermen’s and workers’ quarter, slowly opening up toward the water.

We ended up at the beach near Port Olímpic, the semi-circular stretch with views of bronze sculptures, two high-rise towers, yachts, and a rocky boundary on one side. The beach is artificial, the sand firm, the waves noticeable. The sea was clear, slightly cold, with a stony bottom that keeps you alert. About 500 meters of shoreline, not bad at all for something engineered. Honestly, it’s hard to complain.

We lay there, sun finally breaking through, light clouds above, the sound of the sea doing most of the talking. One of those moments where you briefly think: yes, life can be very decent. I met Jascha, a German student on an exchange semester, relaxed, open, unbothered. We agreed that, beach-wise, Barcelona holds its own surprisingly well. Not cheap, but comparable. Rio de Janeiro came up, and for once the comparison didn’t feel exaggerated.

As the day softened, I watched people more than the water. Two boys awkwardly orbiting two women for what felt like hours before finally speaking. A young mulatta sunbathing topless, entirely at ease with herself and the world. Groups of Germans clustering instinctively, as if drawn by an internal GPS.

In the evening, we ate at a small restaurant nearby. Fish, mussels, gambas, cheese, olives, bread. Nothing fancy, everything right. The kind of meal that closes a day without demanding commentary.

Back in the room, tired in a good way, we had one last drink and then listened to the pillow. It answered immediately.