ESCAPE TOURISM IN BARCELONA
I've been here so many times I've lost count. Nine visits, maybe ten. And every time I arrive, I tell myself to give the city another chance. Maybe it was me last time. Too tired, too distracted, too something. But after two days, the same realization creeps back in.
I don't KNOW IF I AM THE BIGGEST FAN OF Barcelona.
Everything smells like tourist-piss. Like piss and sunscreen, perfumes, weed and warm garbage. A scent that becomes part of how the city breathes. You stop noticing it after a while, the same way you forget what your own apartment smells like. Barcelona feels like a tourist trap with a sea view. Wherever you go, there's a group blocking the way, each person convinced they're having the authentic experience. And you realize you're one of them, just better at pretending otherwise.
The smell gets me first. Then the pseudo-liberal attitude that hides quiet xenophobia behind avocado toast, Turkish eggs and inclusivity slogans. People who preach openness while building invisible walls. Everyone here seems to believe they've unlocked some higher version of life. Talking about it at Honest Greens, which feels like a healthy fast food franchise to me. Yet everyone looks exhausted.
The locals see you, serve you, move on. You're a passing moment. A tip left on the table. If only tourists would tip the way they do in other countries. Their faces carry this pale exhaustion disguised as cool. Tourists behave like they're the last humans alive. Main characters. Locals pretend to hate them. Both trapped in the same loop, neither willing to admit it. You walk through the city and it's all there: old money beside Zara mannequins, skaters facing MACBA extinction who quietly own the city, shiny bomber jackets worn by some British gym rat in skinny jeans, cheap liquor. The same Afrobeat-meets-Reggaeton playlist looping everywhere. Background noise for people afraid of silence.
I'm back for work. That's the only reason. This city is a hub, and everyone in the creative field ends up here eventually, all hunting for meaning. You see them everywhere. Filmmakers, photographers, copywriters. All chasing something they once saw on someone else's feed. Everyone hunting for the thing that will finally feel real. It never does. Sometimes the little details say more than the skyline. The graffiti on walls repainted too many times. Benches covered in skate stoppers. Tiny metal symbols of a city that wants to look rebellious but does not like the mess that comes with it. Souvenir shops with endless rows of keychains and fridge magnets. The city mass-producing its own identity.
Even the coffee is confused.
Either burned or overdesigned. The kind that tastes like ambition and almond milk. Then there are those people who've been here „six years“, talking like they're part of the city now. You hear it in their tone. That quiet superiority of belonging. But they don't belong. It feels like no one does. Even if I lived here twenty years, I'd still feel like an alien.
Maybe that's the point. Barcelona makes you realize how easily beauty becomes performance. How quickly freedom becomes branding. How belonging turns into costume. There are probably good corners here. Bars with real stories. Cafés that still grind beans by hand. People who actually listen. But finding them feels impossible. Like chasing sincerity through a crowd of mirrors. And once you found something you hear some Australian exaggerating his travel experiences, by talking about how „crazy“ it was.
Someone reading this will think: then don't come. Stay home. Fair. And honestly, yeah. That's exactly what I do. Out of seven days, I stay inside four. Trapped in my too-small Airbnb because who can afford a hotel in this circus? Supply and demand, the oldest lie in the book.
I've stayed in at least five Airbnbs here. Every single host complained about the tourists. Told me how unbearable summers are, how the city changes. And every time I just nodded, sitting on their couch. In their Airbnb. That's where the line between wish and reality lies. Right there, between the ideal and the invoice. Every one of them a creative, complaining about the same system they're feeding. And I'm no different. That's what makes it sting.
So I go back to the sea. Always to the sea. The only thing here that doesn't demand. It doesn't sell anything. It doesn't ask you to stay. It just moves. Endlessly, rhythmically, indifferent. Maybe that's why I keep coming back. For that strip of truth at the edge of all the noise. Because everything else smells like tourist-piss, like too much sun and too little soul.
And at some point you stop fighting it. You stop loving or hating. You just walk, breathe, and understand.
The Other Side
But of course, not everything is bad about this city. In fact there are hidden gems you discover when you finally see through the tourist mist. After spending four weeks here again, I came to a point where I'd say I'm cool with the city. Here's why. Once you peek through the mist and the tourists, the pickpockets and all the grumpy faces, you get to understand why people are like they are. And let's be real, why the city is how it is. And I feel them.
While globalization does its thing and we all pay the price by bumping into the same characters worldwide, Barcelona lets you find something real if you dare. Open your eyes to tiny details. Give random places a chance – the ones that don't look fancy, the ones tourists skip. You find people who actually appreciate you being a visitor. Food that's not overpriced. Exactly what you're searching for.
There's this Italian restaurant in El Born I fell in love with. One could complain that you can't put your forearms on the table because it's sticky as fuck. But once they serve the pizza, the steak, the pasta, you forget every minor or major flaw. You have to show up at places and show appreciation for their kitchen, their work. Like you would at the restaurant around the corner at home. That's the problem the city and its citizens face. Main characters who think they're in a theme park without acknowledging the grind of people trying to make a living.
The Phone Thief
I came to that conclusion during my first week. Got off the water from a surf session, meeting some girl from Argentina. While talking to her, a guy approached me. Aggressively polite. Not fully focused and still exhausted, I didn't see the threat. After three minutes he was gone. So was my phone.
Phone addiction isn't always a bad thing. After he got up, I instantly realized he stole my phone. Gave him another twenty meters, then started chasing him down. I'm tall and made use of it by surprising him with a loud shout. He dropped my phone. I saw not only guilt and shame in his face but also the reality he was living in. I thought: I'd love to knock you out, but you're just trying to survive in your own reality. As he dropped my phone, I took it with a dedicated "MOTHERFUCKER!" and went off.
Living in a city that offers so many possibilities and gets treated like a playground comes with a price. The maintenance, the personal connections – everything reduced to bare minimum. If you want the full tourist experience, you're at the right spot. If you want to actually meet real people, you have to trust random chance. The universe. Whatever.
The People Who Made It Worth It
And in my case, I had the chance to meet the most caring and positive people you can imagine. No matter which set I was working on, no matter the profession, I only met positive, dedicated humans who not only show up but are super motivated and just there.
That's why I'm not leaving this city with a bad feeling. I'm leaving with many lovely memories. From my agents who pushed me so hard that at some points I felt like a selftape robot and casting machine, to all the clients I worked with. Santa Eulalia, Brioni, DeAgostini, the people from La Fabrica De Hielo, to Roly and Actyu. To the other models I met.
One thing I learned:
in a world full of self-proclaimed main characters,
be the humble one. Everyone is sick of wannabes and pretenders.
Barcelona isn't good or bad. It's exhausted. Once you understand that, you can almost forgive it. The light still hits different during golden hour. The food still is excellent when you find the right places and sticky tables. Sometimes you meet someone who forgot to hide behind that wall you need to stand the noise. Those moments don't redeem the city, but they make it bearable. They remind you there's of course still kindness and love underneath all the tourist exhaustion.
You stop fighting it. You stop loving or hating. You just exist in it, finding the small truths between all that what you see.
As for me, I'll come back. I'll try to blend in better. Take as less space that isn't mine as possible. Find more places worth protecting from the internet. To everyone I met in Barcelona – the dedicated ones, the real ones, the lovely ones, the supportive ones – nothing but love.
