Sol and Cervezas in Barcelona
Sol and Cervezas in Barcelona
In Barcelona, anarchist thought has helped shape the city’s identity for over a century. Whilst political assassination and mass industrial strikes may be a thing of the past, there remains a passionate reverence for individual freedom that’s tangible throughout the city. Nowhere can this be felt more strongly than in the district of Gràcia, perhaps Barcelona’s most distinctly Catalan neighborhood, where graffiti promoting everything from anarchy to independence to communist revolution can be found scribbled across walls and pavements. Life is of a slower pace here, more akin to that of a village than a major European city; buildings are low-rise, traffic minimal and neighbors greet each other on the stairs. It is one of the most relaxed barris in Barcelona but on sticky summer evenings Plaça del Sol, the nerve centre of Gràcia’s nightlife, comes alive with alcohol, music and an infectious sense of freedom.
As afternoon melts into evening, bars overflow with locals sipping wine and chatting excitedly in the waning sun. Elsewhere students, junkies, musicians, professionals, activists, and alcoholics all intertwine, shunning the bars to drink store-bought Estrella on the warm stones of the square. This diversity breeds a tolerant, relaxed atmosphere, but there’s so much going on here that nobody cares anyway. There’s the music for example, usually provided by an aging guitarist whose alcoholism, lined forehead and brilliant, hoarse singing betray the trials of a painful past. Then there’s the toothless junkie whose attire is so minimal it would offend the hookers on Las Ramblas, yet whose smile is so sweet that nobody really minds, leaving her free to slink about the place in a drowsy daze. In reality there are innumerable characters comprising the boozy carnival that is Plaça del Sol, yet perhaps there’s one who stands out just a little more than the rest.
Once I saw him howling like a wolf on all fours in the middle of the square, another time I drank a beer and watched as he made a sculpture from old tins and bits of paper, attaching wires to the thing in what seemed like an attempt to blow it up. My friends and I would watch as lager, wine and cheap, syrupy sangria took hold of us, the circus growing more absurd with every sip. Every night this guy would build what can only be described as a fort, and every night the police would arrive to demolish it—scrap metal and cardboard flying everywhere. Even in summer the man wore a knee-length leather jacket and he had a fondness for trucker-caps too, of which he must have had three or four. His bizarre clothes were always filthy, he never talked and his facial expression rarely changed from one of utter detachment. Yet despite everything the man was actually revered around Plaça del Sol; his uninhibited weirdness becoming a symbol of everything the place stood for.
For all of it’s bohemian allure, Gràcia still possesses plenty of quality watering holes. There are gin tonic joints where patrons show off shiny suits and yet shinier smiles, vermut-fueled baretos, achingly cool cocktail lounges, and a handful of dive bars that predate them all. These places all ooze that laid back charm which is so particular to the area, but for me the quintessential Gràcia experience would be grabbing a few friends, a six-pack of Estrella, and taking a seat on that little square to absorb the weird, inebriated freedom of it all.