Barcelona’s Beach at Night in February

A February morning report from Barcelona

Our walk begins by Casino Barcelona, where gold-plated roulette wheels spin tales as old as chance itself, and high-stakes poker tables witness daring bluffs and folded dreams, and push-button slot machines mutter secrets in the earlobes of red-eyed gamblers — youthful and not, alone and in company, moneyed and bust.

Here, amidst the silken glow of azure and violet lights and the cold luminescence of soft touchscreens, a chorus of rash dings, hollow thunks, and triumphant ka-chings is muted by padded floors and the thunderous pounding of hooves from live horse races streaming on TV from some distant part of the world, where the sun’s still shining and the nearby buildings cast shadows over the racetrack.

Outside, beneath the gaze of stout palms and tall street lamps, a gray-haired cleaner in a dark-blue uniform emerges, tired and hasty, from the windy stairs of the underground parking lot. He bumps into a tipsy couple dressed to the nines for the tourist-trap nightclubs a few steps down and around the corner.

Feinting the determined advances of two sketchy characters, who try to maneuver me into buying stale weed, warm beer, counterfeit cigarettes, or wilted roses, I make my way to the observation deck and glance at the party scene below: Bar-goers jumping and flitting to a retro beat, puffing on long sinuous hookah pipes, the air fragrant with vapor, knocking back colorful shots with what seems to be bitter, tonsil-torching, pipe-coating liquor.

Paramedics step out of a bright yellow ambulance with flashing lights before it’s finished backing up against the club’s entrance. They’re tasked with undoing the recklessness of a drunken tourist, who will likely do upon himself the same the next night, and the night after, and the one after that, until it’s finally time to catch a cab and the flight home, wishing he could stay here for life. (To live here is to party less, but those who dream of it don’t realize it.)

It’s calm on the far end of the street, where the wet cement meets the subdued waters of the Mediterranean Sea at the Port Olímpic marina.

Yachts of varying luster and size are moored to the dock — their hulls waxed, their masts tall and proud—swaying softly to the crisp February breeze, awaiting summer, when the smell of vaporized salt and pungent sulfur will once again permeate the air and every sunrise will mark the beginning of a new adventure.

Policemen lean against their parked van, chatting about their children’s accomplishments, as they scan the scene for drunkards, pickpockets, and all things suss. It’s a quiet night tonight. 1:41 AM on a Wednesday. Hardly a soul along the recently reconstructed walkway under MAPFRE tower. The cement reflects the lights, like ice.

Nova Icaria beach is lonely. Lulling. The vast waters foam calmly, wearing desolation like a full-length cloak. A flock of seagulls squawks by and birds chirp on a tree from the distance. The sea’s stillness soothes the soul.

In this hour of night, the beach is undisturbed, unadulterated: No sunbathers crowding the sands. No swimmers stirring up the water. No lifeguards blowing whistles. One won’t see waitstaff running around with trays, or German tourists drinking beer, or Russians spending blood money on shrimp, crabs, and mussels.

It’s as if time has stopped, humanity has disappeared, and you — the observer—are the only person left on this Earth. Then the distant sight of airplanes hugging the sky breaks the darkness, and you are reminded it is all a fantasy by the world’s very much steady heartbeat.

A thick silence has settled on Literal Avenue. It’s a stark contrast to the animateness of this street in summertime, when the air trembles with the rumbling of French tourists’ diesel Peugeots, and van-lifers’ parties by the sea, and Toyota Prius cabs speeding and screeching and cutting off one another at traffic lights.

Tonight, the beachside artery lies barren, devoid of the frenzy at the McDonald’s drive-thru and the snake-like queue at the Repsol gas station’s self-service pumps with the dirty handles.

Poof—

All have gone!

Vanished. Like magic.

This is winter’s gift to Barcelonians. A return of this town, if only provisional, to those who call it home. The night unfurls calmly, giving space for dreams, for introspection. The nocturnal opportunists who will shatter your car’s windows to steal that iPhone or iPad forgotten on the seat or in the door pocket or in the glovebox have retreated, sheltered in their beds and gathering gloom for the sunny season yet to come.

I slip in the car and drive, anxious to write it all down before the words slip like sand through the disobedient fingers of my memory.