Barcelona: A City of Dreams, Dissonance, and Divine Design

By Michael L. Weiss | Besorah from the Journey | July 8, 2025

Barcelona is a city that greets you with the sound of distant church bells, the echo of a thousand languages, and the smell of freshly baked bread and warmed asphalt—a paradox of elegance and grit. It is a city where genius and graffiti share the same walls, and where beauty often collides with protest. Our time here was a whirlwind of discovery, inspiration, and, at times, quiet disillusionment. But like many great love affairs, it was complex, captivating, and unforgettable.

A Grand Arrival

We arrived and took residence at the Mandarin Oriental Barcelona, an oasis of refinement perched along the grand Passeig de Gràcia—a boulevard that seems more Rodeo Drive than Iberian artery. The hotel itself is polished, modern, and as quietly confident as a seasoned maître d’. The service is seamless, the rooms comfortably minimalist, and from the rooftop pool, you can see a city both ascending and unraveling.

For my wife Cheryl and our daughter Maqueline, Passeig de Gràcia was more than a street—it was a calling. Hermès, Loewe, Chanel, Zimmerman, and every other house of couture seemed to beckon with open arms and unapologetic price tags. As I sipped espresso and watched from shaded terraces, they danced between storefronts with the precision of art collectors and the joy of children in a candy shop. If the soul of a city is reflected in its windows, Barcelona’s are shimmering with luxury—but only along a very few streets.

Ornate Icons and Troubled Streets

Just steps from our hotel rise two of Barcelona’s architectural provocateurs: Gaudí’s Casa Batlló and the undulating façade of Casa Milà (La Pedrera). Both were as controversial in their time as they are beloved today. Locals once derided these fantastical structures as monstrous and excessive—Casa Milà even earned the nickname “La Pedrera,” or “the stone quarry.” But time, ever the merciful judge, has crowned Gaudí a prophet, and these buildings now attract daily reverence (and the occasional elbow in a crowded photo op).

Yet just outside this pocket of design elegance, the city reveals another face. The streets and sidewalks, compared to Lisbon, Porto, or even Madrid, lack crispness. Litter collects in corners, grime clings to stone, and the air—especially in summer—feels heavier, even weary. There is little of the polished charm found elsewhere in Iberia.

There is also, quite noticeably, a deep working-class fatigue that hangs in the air. While cities like Madrid pulse with national pride and Lisbon hums with emerging optimism, Barcelona feels trapped in something more strained. People seem to walk with their heads down, eyes forward—not in fear, but in fatigue. Not angry, just… tired. The sense one gets is that most residents are simply trying to get through the day. And though the evening brings crowds to the cafés and tapas bars, it is not with exuberance, but necessity. The joy seems practiced—like a ritual performed not for delight, but for survival.

The Cathedral That Time Couldn’t Finish

The Sagrada Família, Gaudí’s unfinished opus, remains a towering testament to unrelenting vision. Construction began in 1882 under architect Francisco de Paula del Villar, but within a year, a young Antoni Gaudí took over—and the trajectory of the project shifted from conventional to celestial. Gaudí reimagined it as a cathedral that would reflect the grandeur of nature and the mysteries of the divine, using geometry, light, and symbolism in ways no architect had dared before.

But Gaudí’s genius was matched by a certain tragic impracticality. His plans were vast, expensive, and deeply unconventional. As a result, construction started, paused, restarted, and was slowed again—by lack of funds, civil unrest, and later, the Spanish Civil War, during which some of his original models and plans were destroyed by anarchists. For decades, the project limped along with the devotion of artisans and the occasional private donation. It wasn’t until the age of computers that some of Gaudí’s complex geometries could even be realized.

What makes the Sagrada Família all the more surreal is its placement: the city grew up around it, with little concern for its ultimate grandeur. The main entrance—the Glory Facade—was originally intended to open onto a wide, ceremonial promenade leading into the heart of the basilica. Instead, urban planners allowed blocks of apartment buildings to be erected mere feet from where that monumental approach should be. Now, with actual completion in sight (targeted for 2033, the centennial of Gaudí’s death), the city has announced that several blocks of apartments will be torn down to create the long-delayed grand entryway. It is an act of urban contrition, over a century overdue.

Inside, the effect is ethereal. Gaudí envisioned the nave as a living forest, with towering columns that branch like trees and stained-glass windows that filter daylight into a kaleidoscope of greens, golds, and blues. The interplay of light and stone feels miraculously modern, especially when you realize this vision was conceived over 140 years ago, before reinforced concrete, CAD software, or even reliable electricity. Gaudí was not just ahead of his time—he was designing for a time that hadn’t yet imagined him.

His devotion to the Sagrada Família was absolute. In his later years, he lived in the workshop on site, dressed in worn clothes, and was often mistaken for a beggar. In a twist both tragic and symbolic, Gaudí died in 1926 after being struck by a streetcar on his way to evening prayers. Because of his disheveled appearance, he was taken to a pauper’s hospital and died with little fanfare. It wasn’t until after his death that the city realized they had lost a visionary.

Gaudí is buried in the crypt of the basilica, in a section he did not design. The irony is poignant: the man who revolutionized modern religious architecture rests beneath a Gothic chapel, the very style he sought to evolve beyond. One can only imagine the celestial eye-roll from his corner of eternity.

Layers of Memory

The Barcelona Cathedral, nestled in the Gothic Quarter, provided a counterpoint: austere, ancient, and defiantly medieval. Its towering spires, cloistered courtyards, and sun-dappled chapels offer sanctuary from the modern mayhem outside.

We climbed to Montjuïc Castle, perched above the harbor atop the so-called “Mountain of the Jews.” At first glance, it’s a picturesque destination—visited for its vistas, gardens, and cable car rides. But dig just beneath the surface, and you discover a story that is far less serene.

The name Montjuïc refers to the presence of a Jewish cemetery established on the slope during the Middle Ages—a burial site long forgotten, paved over, and only recently rediscovered. That this hill came to be known by the Jewish people it effectively erased is a painful irony. Even more so is how the name is now used: locals casually refer to the area as “Mount Jew,” often with no knowledge—or concern—for the legacy it invokes. The term, spoken with indifference, underscores a quiet but persistent cultural bias: one that shrugs at antisemitism not with hostility, but with forgetfulness.

It is perhaps unsurprising, then, that Montjuïc was chosen as the site of the city’s most feared military fortress. Originally constructed in the 17th century, the Montjuïc Castle served as a defensive bastion—protecting the port from foreign invasion. But as the years passed, the fortress turned inward. Rather than defending the people of Barcelona, it began to subdue them.

By the 19th and 20th centuries, the castle had evolved into a political prison. It was used by various Spanish regimes to detain, torture, and execute political dissidents—particularly those aligned with Catalan independence movements, anarchists, and Republicans. Its most notorious chapter came during the Franco dictatorship, when it became a symbol of brutal repression. Hundreds were imprisoned and executed here without trial—including Lluís Companys, the elected President of Catalonia, who was captured by the Nazis in France, extradited to Spain, and shot at Montjuïc in 1940.

That this bastion of state terror stood atop what was once a sacred Jewish burial site seems almost too grim to be real. But history rarely arranges itself neatly. Instead, it layers irony upon injustice, often leaving it to future generations to make sense of the ruins.

Today, visitors stroll the parapets, unaware or uninterested in what transpired here. School groups pose for photos. Vendors sell popsicles. And while the city has made modest efforts to recognize the site’s darker legacy, the narrative remains subdued—submerged beneath the scenic views and souvenir shops.

As I stood there, looking out from the cannon-lined walls over a city that has both revered and resisted its past, I couldn’t help but feel that Montjuïc is more than a place—it’s a metaphor. It’s a mountain that once buried its Jewish dead, then forgot them. A fortress built to protect that later imprisoned. A name used so casually today that its meaning has vanished into the same breeze that carries echoes of ancient prayer and more recent screams.

Barcelona, for all its brilliance, still bears the scars of what it refuses to see.

The El Call, Barcelona’s ancient Jewish quarter, was another poignant stop. Its narrow lanes—once full of scholars, traders, and vibrant community life—are now home to gift shops, boutique galleries, and a quiet kind of amnesia. Still, if one listens carefully, the stones speak.

The Picasso Puzzle, the Park, and the Problem

The Picasso Museum, housed in five adjoining medieval palaces, offered a vivid look at the young artist’s evolution—from classically trained prodigy to fragmented genius. It’s a necessary pilgrimage, if only to be reminded that even Picasso started with perfect lines before he chose to break them.

We wandered through Parc Güell, Gaudí’s kaleidoscopic dreamscape on the city’s northern hills. Its mosaics shimmer in the sun like ceramic confetti, and its sinuous benches, draped in colorful tilework, overlook a city that feels at once ancient and overwhelmed.

And overwhelmed it is.

Tourism, the city’s greatest economic boon, has become its existential dilemma. The rise of Airbnbs has priced many locals out of their own neighborhoods, while mega-cruise ships flood the city daily with throngs of day-trippers. The result is a visible, growing resentment—one that now takes form in protests, graffiti, and yes, even tourists being sprayed with water pistols as a bizarre form of civic exorcism. We witnessed this firsthand in Gràcia, a bohemian neighborhood where banners reading “Tourists Go Home” hang next to vegan gelato shops.

Gentrification is turning El Raval, once an edgy, multicultural melting pot, into a hollowed-out Instagram set. And while the tapas may still be delicious, the soul feels at risk.

Final Reflections

Barcelona is not just a city—it is a contradiction in motion. Its architecture sings, but its people seem hoarse. It dazzles, but leaves you with a strange aftertaste. There is beauty, brilliance, and undeniable genius here. But there is also exhaustion. It is the only city on our journey through Iberia where I felt safe, yet somehow wary—enchanted, yet quietly unsettled.

Would I return? Yes, with eyes wide open.
Would I send my family alone? Honestly, no.

As America retreats inward, and Europe grapples with competing influences—economic, ideological, and cultural—Barcelona stands at a crossroads. And while its towers still rise and its artists still dream, one hopes that the city itself does not forget the people who gave it soul.

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Michael L. Weiss writes from wherever the journey takes him. Follow more reflections at www.besorah.org