The Prostitute

After having eaten dinner in my hotel on Wednesday night, I headed back out into Barcelona to see Las Ramblas at night. It was about 9:15 at this time. My plan, broadly speaking, was to walk up the street, then gradually wander down until I saw a nice-looking pub where I could sit outdoors and watch the people go past. I thought that sounded like quite a good idea.

Anyway, I got on the Metro, and sat down in the baking heat (the Metro was the only part of Barcelona that was truly too hot, although much of the rest of it was very hot, even just shortly after the rain). Moments later, the train reached its first stop, and the hottest woman I have ever seen in person got on. I was simply stunned. Long black hair, perfect hourglass figure, tight clothing. She jiggled her way onto the train and sat down.

Indeed, it was obvious from the way she moved that she was fully aware of how hot she was, which counts as a very mixed blessing. On the one hand, it speaks of a confidence that immediately confers an additional hotness. On the other, it very often presages an arrogance that is unappealing (an attitude of "who are you, and what gives you the right to speak to me?"). On balance, though, it's better to be confident than not - the girl who has just been shifted out of the "top 5" had terrible self-esteem issues, which led to her dating a whole string of guys who just weren't good enough for her, several of whom treated her quite badly indeed.

I would like to claim at this point that I proceeded to chat her up, but that would be a lie, of course. Actually, for the remainder of the Metro ride, she was actually talking to someone on her mobile phone. Naturally, the part of me that is a wireless comms expert was truly impressed by this feat; I wonder how it was achieved?

Anyway, my station was reached, and I departed the train, and proceeded to walk up Las Ramblas, marvelling at the street-life, especially the 'living statues'. In every art-form, there are a key group of innovators. In living statuism, those innovators work in Barcelona, where they have determined that the public is no longer amused by simply immobile living statues, but rather would prefer their statues to somehow express something of their intent through silent motion. This whole new artform is truly spectacular, such that I feel it needs a whole new name. That said, I can't help but wonder how long it will be before these 'moving living statues' will innovate again, and perhaps incorporate sounds, or perhaps even words, into their acts. Truly, these are wondrous days we live in.

As I walk, I'm all the while reeling from the need to suddenly re-calibrate my hotness-meter, and at the same time trying to work out just how to embellish this story for best presentation on the blog. Little did I know that an entirely different story was looming.

I reached the top of the street, and started retracing my steps. However, before I got far, I determined that I actually needed to make a stop before proceeding. So, a quick visit to Starbucks ensued, an enquiry about door access codes, and...

So, I returned to the street, and resumed my saunter. Moments later, I noted a fairly attractive girl dressed all in white moving to cross my path. So, I subtly slowed my walk and adjusted my path to allow her to pass without walking into me. However, she adjusted her path to match, then moved again when I adjusted to walk past her - I wasn't keen on the distraction, not least since my guidebook had stated that there was a high rate of petty crime in Barcelona, and one should always be careful, especially when one thinks one might be being distracted.

"Hello," she said, "I've decided to talk to you."

"Okay, that's nice," say I. I shrug my shoulders slightly, so my wallet slides into the gap between arm and side.

"Where are you from?"

"Scotland."

"Oh, that's nice. And do you have a name?"

"Stephen," I say, still scanning the crowd with my peripheral vision. I'm quite glad I chose to wear my contact lenses at this point.

"I'm Sharon," she says, although the name may have only sounded a bit like Sharon. "Let's go back to your hotel room."

O-kay, that's a bit odd. At this point, I revise my thinking from theory #1 (pickpocket/distraction) to theory #2. It is with some sorrow that I must confess that I never considered that this could be genuine. Such things just don't happen to me. However, it would be nice, I think, to not be so jaded that I simply discard the possibility out of hand. The fact that I was actually right is scant consolation.

"I don't think so. Thanks anyway," I say, and move away. Only to find this girl pursuing me.

Well, I can put on quite some speed while remaining at a walk (I avoid running in public; it's generally undignified), and especially when moving through a crowd. However, she continued to follow. Shortly, therefore, I stopped and faced the issue.

"So, where's your hotel?" she asked. (Actually, that's skipping a bit - first there was the instance where she accused me of "walking funny", and suggested I should relax.)

"I'm not taking you back to my hotel," I say.

"Oh okay," she says, taking my arm. "In that case, we'll go back to my hotel. It's this way."

"No!"

"Come on, please?" (What the hell, I'm thinking.) "50 euros?"

Ding! Theory 2 has it. I'm going to guess, based on the way she said it, the €50 is considered a good price. I wouldn't know. Still, doesn't really make a difference.

"No. Sorry."

"Why not?" she asks.

Now, there's no answer to that question. I tried to think of one, but all the truths can't be said. "I don't trust that you won't have a bunch of guys beat me up," doesn't sound like something to say (especially if there is a bunch of guys, and she's ready to signal them). "I don't trust that you're clean," must surely be considered highly offensive (even if it's an obvious worry - and, statistically, things don't look good for 'Sharon'). Then there's the harder truth: "If I start paying for it, then that's an admission that I have to." But that's frankly not something I'm going to get into with a random person on a street in Barcelona. Or perhaps, "I already have a hard enough time maintaining any sort of empathy with people - the last thing I need is another reason to think of people as commodities."

I did consider an easy lie, and pretending to be gay. And later, on the train ride back to the hotel, I also considered briefly whether a harder lie, of pretending to be a terrible racist, would have solved the problem. The truth is, though, I wouldn't have been comfortable with either of these.

"Just no," I said. "Please leave me alone."

But she would not. She continued following me down the street, gradually deciding she would latch onto my arm (this had the advantage that at least I knew she wasn't picking my pocket). Then, she decided it would be a good idea to start tweaking my nipple.

By this point, I have given up trying to shake her off. She's not going to go. And this is the bit I really don't get at all. I'd said "no". I'd been busily trying to get away. There had been no indication that I was changing my mind. So why the hell did she persist? Surely there must have been easier marks out there? It's just crazy.

Anyway, I make all due haste back to the Metro station, where she finally gives up. I can only assume that either the extensive camera system in the Metro is unfriendly to 'professionals', or perhaps that the system is worked by other girls. Either way, she finally went away, and I went back to the hotel.

As I said before, Barcelona was definately a mixed bag.