I’m a fan of the city park. Any city or town’s city park is usually the best place to find magical details of a place’s character and people. Barcelona Barcelona
The first, second, third, and fourth times Kase and I visited Parc de la Ciutadella, we did so at my slow 10-minute-mile pace, running by things with a quick “Whoa! What’s that?” or an introspective “Wow, these people really take table tennis seriously.” After nine years of togetherness, I’ve realized that 75% of the time, Kase is essentially a traveler on the spectrum of Anthony Bordaine meets Clark Griswold. He’s the traveler you’ll spy chilling with the locals and really taking in the full cultural experience. He’s also the guy who’s pretty satisfied with a run-by viewing of monuments, public art, and intricately designed lamps (*Sigh* I love them so). Imagine us jogging in place (there is no stopping on a Johnstun run) outside the modern, early Gaudi (i.e. gaudy), Parc de la Ciutadella fountain Cascada. I’m pointing, wondering aloud, and making many Ooohs and Ahhhs. Kase does his best Clark G head bob and says, “Let’s go, Kid. There's a pitcher of sangria waiting for us.”
Eight days into our trip, it had to be done – I ditched Kase and his homework for a city park adventure of my very own. On the way to the park, I busted out my rusty Spanish to order the typical coffee and pastry from a cafeteria; I worked on perfecting my charming “I’m really trying, can you pleeeeeease give me a break” face; and embraced my Type A personality and stuck my nose in our BCN Lonely Planet for some preparatory reading.
From that point onward, as I walked through the Passeig de Luis Companys promenade entering the park and through the park itself, I became the tourist that most natives probably despise – Ipod plugged in, nose in guidebook, camera in one hand, and Flip video in the other. Sure, I did my best to not run into anyone, but I meandered like crazy – looked at everything, tried to read every sign, and appreciated every detail. From the random old and new public art dotting the park (the Cascada and the unmarked wonders) to the historic structures and buildings (like the Arc de Triomf, the Castell dels Tres Dragons, and the Parlament de Catalunya) to the handful of park arboretums (like the L’Hivernacle and the L’Umbracle) to the unnamed structures I could never identify from my book – the Parc was all mine that morning, and it was heavenly.
This is not to say that my time that morning was strictly by the books. Our runs through the park had deprived me of valuable people watching time, and that morning, I stalked lovely, old Spaniards at their finest. Even though there are five bocce courts for the playing, a group of 30 or so white-haired men will huddle by one court to watch one heated match play out. Old women will walk their old dogs and stumble upon each other in the park; they’ll make surprised “Oh, your dog is so precious!” noises to each other and then gesture to a park bench so they can sit and have a nice visit. Old women and old men will push chubby Spanish children around the park; I’m guessing these chubby babies are grandchildren but am working on a theory that these old folks are all still reproducing J. 
Then there are the little things – the lamps, the metalwork, the artistic detail around every corner, and the million other details I loved about my morning that film and video can’t capture. But enough of that…I’ve hijacked this blog long enough.
