WALKING THE WALK

Mind your own business and get where you’re going used to be my understanding of how to walk down the street, but since moving to Barcelona that has changed. Folks around here don’t keep their heads down on their way from A to B; they prefer to engage in a protracted visual exchange with as many passers-by as they can lay their eyes on.

It’s not an aggressive gaze, but a seemingly neutral peep into the soul of their fellow pedestrians, and it’s drawn out for the longest possible time, until both parties are out of each other’s peripheral vision.

At first I would sneak a glance at myself as I passed shop windows to check I didn’t have something stuck to my face. I still haven’t mastered the long look without adorning it with a timid smile but gradually I’ve begun to accept all of the unsolicited attention and, on good days, I even enjoy it.

Then there are the tradesmen. Barcelona is under constant construction and the startling difference between the men hanging off the scaffolding here compared to your average Bob the builder in Australia is the level of creativity injected into their discourse.

Aussie Bob might ask for a flash of naked flesh and throw in a wolf-whistle for good measure. Latino Bob, who can be somewhat more verbally exuberant at times, is more likely to say something along the lines of, ‘Stop, you! Yes, you, the love of my life! You are killing me with your beauty. You are the sky, a murderer of men’s hearts, the conqueror of my soul. I must have your hand in marriage. Come! Give it to me now before I fall down on this spot where I stand and die a slow, agonising death provoked by the cruel machinations of your unrequited love …’

It may seem strange that staring and cooing go hand in hand with pushing and shoving but one of the biggest challenges I’ve found walking down the street is managing to do it without being hurt.

A good approach, with eyes locked and adequate space between me and an oncoming person, is no guarantee that I won’t get hit by someone. At the last second they will often swerve, almost surreptitiously, into my direct path and slam me with a half-cocked clavicle bone.

I used to think it was my fault and would instinctively apologise for getting in everyone’s way but I’ve since come to my senses and no longer feel compelled to beg my own pardon. Instead I take to the streets, stiffen my stride and, if anyone should get in my way, I do what the locals do as I bump them – I feign surprise.