Time Out Barcelona

Truth, too often, can turn into clich. Seville has its flamenco, its bulls, its fiery tempers. Madrid has its suckling pig and its old-school pomp. Bilbao is tough and gritty, with a heart of gold. So far, so familiar. But by contrast, Barcelonas truths have been harder to distinguish. Ordered and chaotic, traditional and forward-thinking, its been resistant to platitudes over the centuries, and remains a pleasingly elusive place.

Of all the unlikely commentators, Leon Trotsky nailed Barcelona as well as anyone. Like Nice in a hell of factories, he wrote in 1916. Smoke and flames on the one hand, flowers and fruit on the other. Granted, the factories are long gone, but their stamp on Barcelonas history has proven indelible: the locals now work almost as hard in banking and commerce as they once did in the textile mills, and Catalonia is still considered the powerhouse of Spain in many of the same ways. And the smoke and flames of those tumultuous decades still linger in the fervent nationalism and endless demonstrations about perceived wrongs committed by central government.

Despite its uncompromising bedrock, Catalonia has managed to be the font of much of the countrys creativity. Working from his restaurant El Bulli, Catalan chef Ferran Adri has had a profound effect on the worlds restaurant culture, much as Salvador Dal did with art and Antoni Gaud with architecture. And while Picasso wasnt Catalan, he considered Barcelona his spiritual home and his artistic muse.

But although Barcelonas cultural figureheads continue to hold plenty of appeal, the city has more to offer than the creations of these famous residents. From the characterful medieval quarter via the elegant, 19th-century Eixample to the regenerated waterfront, the city rewards the curious pedestrian, its streets awash with beauties, curiosities and diversions. Indeed, the very urban fabric of Barcelona is deliriously vital: grand with medieval design, playful with impish street art and ablaze with Modernista colours and furbelows. Or, as Trotsky might have it, flowers and fruit. Sally Davies, Editor