I wasn’t planning to go to Barcelona.
Too big, too loud, too much crime – or so I’d been told.
And honestly? I’d had enough of megacities.
The plan was to just drive past.
But then, 100 meters before the exit, this thought hit me:
When will I ever be this close again?
So I turned off. Spontaneous. Tired. Curious.
Sunday morning, 8:30 a.m.
I find a calm, free parking spot in El Born. No stress, no chaos.
The city is still asleep – and parking on Sundays is free in Spain.
A promising start.
At 11:00, I start to play.
A quiet square, soft chords.
I’m tired myself and keep everything low and mellow.
11:03 – the first window opens.
11:04 – the second one.
Two neighbors yell down.
“Too loud!” “Be quiet!” “Get lost!”
I nod, turn it down, keep playing gently.
By 11:10, the police show up.
Polite but firm.
“Do you have a license?”
I don’t.
Turns out: you can busk on Sundays after 11 a.m. –
but only if you’re licensed.
Ten minutes in, my gig is done.
And still – I don’t regret a thing.
Barcelona has a pulse I like.
Art everywhere. Music. Magicians. Clowns.
Life on every corner.
I came with zero expectations and still got so much.
Now I’m on the road to France,
determined to enjoy the rest of this journey more consciously.
Maybe this was the last gig of the trip.
Maybe not.
Until my wheels fall off.
