Barcelona was, of course, different then in the mid-1980s. It still had a rough, port air to it. Quinquis, small time crooks and pickpockets, were a threat on Las Ramblas and in the old city. Transvestite prostitutes did nightly sentry duty on the street corners of the Rambla de Catalunya, the extension of the Ramblas away from the sea. Gypsies would set up a fold-out tables on street corners and rip you off with the timo de los trileros, enticing you to bet on which of three upturned cups of walnut shells hid a pea or a small plastic ball. You walked carefully, or not at all, through the Barrio Chino – the densely populated red light district on one side of the Ramblas. I spent my first couple of weeks in a rundown hostal in a charming but dilapidated square off the Ramblas. The Plaza Real had palm trees, peeling paintwork, a leaky fountain, a dozen drug dealers and a weekly market in what looked distinctly like stolen goods..
I was looking for a job, I wore my hair short, my shirts almost ironed and a suit. The plaza low life left me alone. In retrospect I realised this was because I looked like one of those clean cut young American evangelists who, even today, pound the streets of Spanish cities seeking converts.
From the book ‘Ghosts of Spain’ By Giles Tremet
