Catalunya is not Spain (apparently)

Barcelona is full of people with terrible haircuts. The blame, I believe, lies squarely at the door of Fernando Torres. Last summer, Torres was officially in possession of the world’s worst haircut, parading it through Euro 2004 until the world’s scorn and his own shame led him to cut it off. The Spanish (or maybe just the Catalan) seem to have taken it to heart. There are awful feathered mullets everywhere; it looks like they have cut the fringes themselves, without the aid of a mirror, but couldn’t quite reach the back – at least not all of it. So they are left with a strangely layered front and a ratty mullet rear. Some have clearly tried to hide this by flushing their own heads down the loo, leaving a streaky badger bleach effect. They look – if possible – worse.

Neon pharmacy signs have been elevated to an art form in Barcelona, as if – like Las Vegas – each farmacia is trying to outdo the next. Of course, there might be an ulterior motive. The flashing red and green signs are quite hypnotic, but also cause headaches and nausea. And where can you find a cure for these ailments? Exactly.

The Girlfriend and I couldn’t be bothered to pay to go inside the Sagrada Familia. We can read about the history later, and neither of us was interested in climbing the towers. The older façade is particularly foul: impressive but gaudy. The newer façade is much better. Angular, stylised and almost threatening, with spires topped by berries of colour, exploding with contrast against the drabness of the concrete or worn stone colours of the church.
Plus, I’ve been in inside enough churches during the past two weeks; I don’t need to see another.

Air-conditioned underground trains. Mmmmmmm…