Last week I got to visit Barcelona for a work thing. Really, I went because I wanted a short jaunt by the Mediterranean and didn’t want to pay for it all myself. Packed a swimsuit and bought sunscreen in the Gatwick duty-free.
I’d forgotten what it was like to be in a city where the museums shut at 8pm and the restaurants are open until midnight and the clubs kick you out at dawn. Not that I went clubbing, of course, I was too tired out from walking around in the simmering evening heat. I ate well – there was even a gluten-free bakery near my hotel, and I got to have a sugary ring donut and a cinnamon roll for the first time in years.
It was nice to remind myself that I can speak Spanish, and could even progress beyond tourist Spanish again with long enough in the country. Not that I had the time.
There were signs, of course. Walking around the university quarter, I saw a few Palestinian flags hanging out of windows. ‘Fuck Israel’ was graffitied on a sign in the Rambla. I found out about a nearby synagogue and thought to try and get a tour, but chickened out when I saw the high gate guarded by a police patrol. Asking whether the synagogue did ‘algo para turistas’ in a neighbouring business, I was brusquely told to ask them directly.
I flew out Friday afternoon, not regretfully because I want to keep shabbos with my family, but a bit sadly because if I could have gotten away with it, I’d have stayed another month.
Today I’ve just read that on Friday evening, a group of visibly Jewish tourists were followed, harrassed, spat at, and called baby killers on their way back to their hotel from the Kabbalat Shabbat service at a nearby synagogue. The only thing which prevented the assailants from following these people into the hotel was hotel security.
So much for that fantasy.
Sonya Blanck writings 