Barcelona’s bustling, tree-lined Ramblas boulevard is a boisterous fusion of noise, colour and activity. Herds of pedestrians push their way past the squeaking menageries at the exotic birds stalls and the bright, sweet smelling flower stalls.Circles of spectators form around dancing, juggling and fire-eating street entertainers. Human statues stand silent watch as a teenage Moroccan bag-snatchers weave through the crowds and, at the port end, a handful of dumpy, cheap prostitutes pitch for business.
I know no other city where a single street is so important. From sex shops and souvenir stalls to the opera house and, in La Boqueria, the best fresh food market in Spain, Las Ramblas caters _ in one way or another- for the most elemental desires of life.
This is where Barcelona celebrates, protests and riots. Built over the course of a stinking stream once known as the Cagalell – the Stream of Shit – it is, more importantly, where Barcelona meets itself.
From the book “Gosths of Spain” by Giles Tremlett

Folklore, death and hard-edged politics overtook a village where local businesses closed down for the day. There were pipes and drums and dancing girls in long red skirts and white blouses carrying long hoops decorated with ribbons. A male dancer performed a neat, austere and highly acrobatic dance – the aurresku – full of on-the -spot turns and impressively high kicks in front of the coffin. There were also angry speeches and denunciations of Madrid. It all ended with the surprising, high-pitched sound of women ululating and the turning over by angry radicals of a radio reporter’s car. I do not recall any masked men this time. But at another funeral in Solaruze – this time for an ETA gunwoman shot by the army sergeant she had tried to kill when he stopped his car at a traffic light – masked characters appeared with a huge banner bearing the axe and serpent of ETA.
From the book “Ghosts of Spain” by Giles Tremlett