The cabin lights came on somewhere over the Balearic Sea, and the pilot said the words I had been waiting to hear for years. Welcome to Barcelona, local time, 31 degrees. And just like that, the plane started its slow descent towards El Prat. I pressed my forehead against the window, watching the coastline appear through a thin layer of Mediterranean haze. The city stretched out to the right, a grid of pale buildings ending abruptly at the deep blue sea. It did not feel real. It still does not feel real.
I walked off the plane and into the terminal, and the first thing that hit me was the warmth. Not the dry heat of an aircraft cabin, but a soft, humid embrace that smelled faintly of jet fuel and salt. I grabbed my two suitcases from the carousel, the ones holding everything I own, and dragged them towards the metro. El Prat to the city centre costs around 5 euros on the train, and for a moment I just stood there at the ticket machine, staring at the options. T-casual, T-usual, Hola Barcelona. I had read about these cards so many times from my sofa back home, and now here I was, actually buying one.
I bought the T-casual, a ten-ride card for about 13 euros, and swiped through the turnstile. The R2 Nord train was quiet, which surprised me. August in Barcelona, I had been told, is when the city empties out. The locals go to the coast or the mountains, and the tourists flood the Gothic Quarter. The train slid out of the airport tunnel and into the daylight, and I watched the suburbs roll by. Blocks of apartment buildings, laundry hanging from balconies, the occasional palm tree. It all looked so ordinary, and so foreign at the same time.
My first stop was not a hostel or a hotel. I had booked a short-term rental for two weeks in Poblenou, the old industrial district that has reinvented itself as the 22@ tech hub. The apartment was small, a one-bedroom with a tiny balcony overlooking a courtyard. The landlord, a man named Jordi, met me at the door and handed me the keys. He spoke rapid Catalan-accented Spanish, and I nodded along, catching maybe half of it. The rent for this place is about 1,200 euros a month, which is on the lower end for a furnished short-term stay in August. He asked if I had my NIE yet.
The NIE, the Número de Identidad de Extranjero. That is the foreigner's identification number, and it is the first mountain you have to climb if you want to live here. Without it, you cannot sign a proper lease, open a bank account, or get a local SIM card. I had read about the process online, the cita previa appointment system, the forms, the queues. The first step, as far as I could tell, was to book an appointment at the Oficina de Extranjería or a police station, and that had to be done online. I thanked Jordi, shut the door, and immediately opened my laptop on the kitchen counter.
The website was slow, as government websites always are. But after about twenty minutes of clicking and waiting, I had a cita previa for the following Tuesday. Exhale. That done, I decided to head out and see the city. I needed to stretch my legs after the flight, and the best way to learn a place is on foot. I walked from Poblenou towards the beach, following the wide avenues lined with modern office buildings and old factory chimneys converted into art spaces. The sun was high, and the air was thick with humidity. The forecast said 30 degrees, but it felt closer to 34.
I reached the seafront at Platja del Bogatell, a wide stretch of golden sand that was surprisingly busy for a city in August. Families with umbrellas, couples playing paddleball, groups of teenagers shouting in Italian and French and German. The Mediterranean looked calm and inviting, a deep turquoise that seemed almost too perfect. I sat on the low wall for a few minutes, just watching the waves. A street vendor walked past selling cold coconuts, and I bought one for 3 euros. It was the sweetest thing I had tasted in months.
From the beach, I walked along the boardwalk towards the Barceloneta, the old fishing neighbourhood that sits on a peninsula jutting into the sea. The streets are narrow here, laid out in a grid, and the balconies are heavy with drying laundry. This is where the city's relationship with the sea began, long before the 1992 Olympics transformed the waterfront. The beach itself, I recalled, was largely created for those games, with sand shipped in from Egypt. Before that, this stretch of coast was industrial. It is hard to imagine, looking at it now.
I was hungry by then, so I ducked into a small bar on a corner in Barceloneta. The kind of place with a tiled counter, a few stools, and a display case full of cold tapas. I pointed at a plate of patatas bravas and a glass of something cold. The woman behind the counter smiled and poured me a caña, a small beer, which cost about 3 euros. The patatas were crispy, smothered in a spicy tomato sauce and aioli. I ate them slowly, standing at the counter, watching the afternoon light filter through the open door. This, I thought, is a good start.
The owner, seeing my suitcase parked by the door, asked where I was from. When I told her I was moving here, she laughed and said I was crazy to arrive in August. Everyone leaves, she said, waving her hand dismissively. The city becomes a theme park. But she also said it was a good time to do paperwork, because the queues are shorter. I paid, about 9 euros for the food and drink, and stepped back out into the heat. The siesta was settling over the neighbourhood. Shops were pulling down their metal shutters. The streets felt quieter, more private.
I walked back towards the old city, through the narrow streets of the Gothic Quarter. The crowds were thick here, as the bar owner had promised. Tourists spilling out of souvenir shops, groups following guides holding umbrellas, the constant hum of conversation in a dozen languages. I kept my hand on my wallet, remembering the advice about pickpockets in this area. It is not dangerous, exactly, but you have to be smart. Wear your bag across your front. Keep your passport somewhere safe. Do not make yourself an easy target.
I emerged onto La Rambla, the famous boulevard that cuts through the heart of the old city. The trees create a canopy of shade, and the pavement is alive with street performers and flower stalls and terraces packed with people. At the end of it, the port opens up, a wide basin full of yachts and tourist boats. I walked as far as the Columbus Monument, then turned back. I wanted to see the Mercat de la Boqueria, the city's most famous food market, which sits just off the Rambla. It is a tourist trap, they say, but it is still a spectacle.
The Boqueria is a riot of colour and noise. Stalls piled high with peaches and figs and tomatoes, their scent mixing with the smell of fresh seafood and cured ham. I bought a small cup of freshly cut mango for 4 euros and wandered the aisles. A fishmonger was shouting something in Spanish, a butcher was slicing jamón with a long knife. I noticed a few stalls shifting towards the tourist trade, selling smoothies and pre-made paella, but the core of the market is still real. It is worth the crowds, if only once.
By late afternoon, the heat was getting to me. I found a bench in a small plaza near the market and sat down, watching an old man feed pigeons. The city has this rhythm, I was beginning to understand. The morning rush, the lunch that stretches into a long sobremesa, the afternoon slowdown when the sun is too high, and then the evening revival when everything comes back to life. The August exodus means that many of the regulars are gone, replaced by visitors, but the rhythm remains. The city does not stop; it just changes its cast.
I walked back towards Poblenou as the sun began to drop, the light turning golden and long. The metro was hot and crowded, the T-casual card working perfectly. I got off at Glòries and walked the last few blocks, passing the Design Museum and the new skyscraper that dominates the skyline. I stopped at a small supermarket to buy basic supplies. Bread, eggs, olive oil, a bottle of local wine. The total came to about 15 euros, which felt reasonable. I climbed the stairs to my apartment, unlocked the door, and collapsed onto the bed.
I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the courtyard below. A dog barked somewhere. A child laughed. The evening was settling in. I got up and made myself a simple dinner, pa amb tomàquet, the Catalan classic of bread rubbed with tomato and drizzled with olive oil. It cost almost nothing to make, and it tasted like a revelation. I ate it on the balcony, watching the lights come on across the city, and I thought about the week ahead. The NIE appointment. The bank account. The endless small tasks that turn a visitor into a resident.
There is a whole infrastructure to arriving, I have learned. The paperwork, the queues, the forms. But there is also the city itself, waiting outside your door. And the trick, I think, is to keep the two in balance. Yes, you need to do the bureaucracy. But you also need to eat the patatas bravas. You need to walk the beach. You need to sit in a plaza and watch the light change. That is why you came, after all. Not to fill out forms, but to live here.
The next morning, I woke up early, before the heat had a chance to build. I made coffee in the tiny kitchen and took it out to the balcony. The sky was clear, and the air was fresh. In a few days, they say, there will be a solar eclipse, a near-total one at sunset, the first in over a century. I had read about it before I came, a happy accident of timing. I made a mental note to find out where to get the special glasses. It seems like the kind of thing you should not miss.
But that is for later. For now, there is just the city, waking up around me. A bike bell rings in the street below. A window opens across the courtyard. The first siren wails in the distance, somewhere towards the centre. I take a sip of coffee and let the day begin.
This is Barcelona, and I am here. The journey has officially started.