The first thing you notice about Barcelona is that sound only enters in from your right ear. This is such a remarkable feature that you cannot fathom why it was not mentioned in any of the travel literature. However, upon further review you realize this may be a issue localized around yourself due to descending 35,000 feet with a cold. This leads to the embarrassing scene in the airport restroom where you are observed pinching your nose while simultaneously attempting to blow out of it. I'm told this can be bad for your eardrum, but they said the same thing about rock music and pouring pop rocks in your canal; so, whatever.
With your hearing back up and running it's time to find a taxi. Despite a pretty good grasp of the Spanish language, you are not really clear how to pronounce the address to your hotel (Avenida Paral-Lel 76-80) so your driver assumes you are an idiot and doesn't talk to you for a lot of the ride.
About halfway between the city and the airport a large and magnificent cemetery comes into view on your left side. This is the locals' way of letting you know that death is a common and celebrated certainty here so you best step correct lest you wind up on that hill as well.
But the hill gives you the opportunity to try out some Spanish interrogatives on your driver who slowly decides that you are not the moron he originally took you for, and is now happy to discuss the local area and culture in the few minutes of the drive you have left.
At the hotel, your room is not ready yet so you trade them your luggage for a ticket and a local map and go out to experience the city which your stomach is looking forward to, but your left knee which has never really recovered from its last set of tennis is grumbling about.
You feel comfortable here as the average height is much closer to your own. You have read about the expert Barcelonian pick-pockets but most of the populous appears benign, either through age or accompaniment of children or the choice of unisex neon tights for jogging. This give you confidence to wander the streets until you find yourself in a quaint alley when a small shop opens to exhale a woman with two pit bulls and what is either a large lighter or a taser. So taking the defensive cue from the locals, you meander back to the more populated district.
What you observe as you go up and down the streets is that Barcelona is an economy based on Tapas and alcohol served in long narrow shops or tables and tents right outside.
There is a large statue of Columbus in the middle of a roundabout near the piers. I can only imagine that the message here is, "Look, if you're stuck in traffic just imagine how bad it would be to have been him. He didn't even know where he was most of the time." Not to be confused with Columbus Circle in New York, though I suspect the message is meant to be the same.
Near the ports there was some kind of televised cooking competition with over a hundred participants. Friends, family, and onlookers stood round, but I couldn't figure out what the prize was. It couldn't be your own restaurant as clearly everyone in the city already had to own their own given the volume of small establishments I'd already viewed. I determined this was just an elaborate distraction ploy for pick pockets and I moved on.
Eventually I made it back to my hotel, got into my room, a shower, and then a bed. In that order. Where I have been until now. Day 2 holds the promise of a gothic district and Gaudi architecture before work starts in the early evening, so I need to stock up on {insert goth/gotic pun here}.
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