On Tuesday morning, June 20th, I left the abba Rambla hotel and, after a brief moment of hesitation, turned right. It made no difference either way. I had an extra day left of my business trip, and my flight wasn’t until tomorrow, so I had the whole day to myself. This was my second time in Barcelona, but I was too busy to go for a walk the first time, so it did not really count.

I didn’t have a plan. I just wanted to wander, to feel the city, you know. Definitely not the main tourist attractions. On Tuesday, the crowds were a bit thinner, but I still wasn’t excited by them. I just strolled slowly down the streets, staring at people and shop windows, listening to snippets of bilingual conversations (I knew Spanish, but not much Catalan), stopped at a random café to drink a cortado, and then kept walking. And after some time, I found myself on Las Ramblas. So much for avoiding the crowds.

Of course, I’d heard about this famous tree-lined pedestrian street. Who hasn’t? Even my business partners recommended that I visit it. I found it lively and vibrant, albeit a little chaotic. Somewhere in the middle, between the flower stalls, food stands, and human statues, there was a sparse line of amateur artists selling their paintings. It wasn’t really my thing, but I wasn’t in a hurry, so why not? I stopped by the first stall, but everything there was either more or less amateurishly made or painfully derivative. I moved on.

I passed a stall selling poor imitations of Dalí’s work, and another displaying mediocre seascapes. The artists mostly looked like hobbyists – older people, often chatting with friends or on their phones – their passion seemingly buried under layers of commercialism aimed at wealthy and hurried tourists. Some people were quick to sketch passers-by, offering their caricatures in exchange for money. This art lacked soul. I was about to turn into the narrow alleys of the Gothic Quarter when something made me pause.

Yet another aisle, yet another dozen paintings. But these were different.

I am not a connoisseur of painting at all, but it did not take a skill to recognize their quality. The vibrant strokes and bold color combinations were captivating. The subjects varied – a lot! – but they all shared a raw, almost untamable energy. One painting showed the cathedral at night, but with colors so vivid they seemed to pulse with life. Another was a simple street scene, but the way the light hit the cobblestones made you feel the heat rising from the stone. These weren’t just pictures; they were emotions captured on canvas. As I said, other artists here preferred to stick to a single theme, like sea scenes, landscapes, or portraits, and so on. There were no two similar paintings in this collection.

I moved slowly from one picture to another until I stopped by a painting of an old man playing the guitar on a deserted beach at sunset. The colors – burnt orange, deep purple, a touch of crimson bleeding into the sand – told a story of solitude and music. The old man wasn’t just strumming; he was pouring his life into those strings. I could almost hear the melody, a melancholic tune carried by the sea breeze. I felt an odd connection to it, a strange sense of déjà vu. I’d never seen this place, yet I knew it. Felt it. And the more I looked, the less I wanted to part with it.

“¡Hola, señor! Fancy buying something?” asked a dark-skinned man who was selling almost decent landscape watercolors in ridiculously cheap-looking frames at the next aisle.

To buy? This unexpected idea struck me: I’ve never had any paintings at home before, let alone genuine works of art. But there’s always a first time, right? And if I were to start collecting, I would start with this one.

“Sí, por favor.” I looked around in confusion. There was no one selling in this aisle. “Where’s the owner?”

“Un momento, señor.” He looked somewhere behind my back and shouted, “Emmelia! Vine aquí de pressa, you’ve got a customer!”

“Un moment!” a clear girl’s voice responded.

I turned around and saw her, a girl in her twenties, dressed in a boho style. She stood leaning against another artist’s easel, pointing to different spots on the unfinished painting and explaining something expressively to the painter. Then she took his brush and made a few quick, precise strokes. Then she gave the brush back and turned to us, brushing her hair away from her eyes with the back of her hand.

My God, she was beautiful.

She wasn’t just beautiful in the conventional sense. It was a wild, untamed beauty that matched her paintings. Her hair, a cascade of dirty blonde chaos, was cut just at her neck and seemed to have a life of its own. A colorful scarf, frayed at the edges, was tied loosely around her head. She wore a loose, long, embroidered skirt with a simple black camisole, and a handful of mismatched bracelets jingled on her wrists and ankles. And her feet – her bare feet – were black with the dust of the city streets, like those of a hippie or gypsy. Yet she moved with a dancer’s grace, as if the grime were simply part of her natural element. Her fingers were stained with paint of every hue, and there was a fresh stain on her cheekbone.

“Bon dia,” she said, her voice a melody with a hint of something older, wilder. “I see you like my painting.” She gestured towards the canvas I was admiring.

“I ... I, um, yes. It’s ... extraordinary,” I managed to say. “Who painted it?”

A slow, sly smile spread across her face. “I did, of course. You like the colors?”

“I love them,” I said, my gaze shifting between her and the painting. It was hard to look away from either. “The way you’ve captured the beach, the man and his music ... I never ... Well ... How much for it?”

“Good choice,” she said, looking directly at my eyes. “He was much like you. You could be friends, I think. Quizás.”

“Who? This man, in the picture?”

“No, the man who ... No, nada. It costs three hundred euros.”

Wow. Three hundred for a street painting? Yes, I had money, but ... on the other hand, the painting was worth it.

She noticed my hesitation. “I can give it to you for two hundred and fifty.”

“No.” I shook my head and reached for my purse. “It should be three hundred. It’s worth it. Truly.”

She laughed and pulled the painting from the hanger, wrapping it quickly in brown paper. Her fingers moved with a quick dexterity that seemed almost otherworldly. “You have buen ojo, señor. Good eye. Many people, they look and say ‘costa massa, too much.’ They don’t see the music here, you know? They don’t feel it. They only see a picture. No. They don’t even see.”

As I handed her the money, my fingers brushed against hers. Her skin was warm and rough, her nails short and stained with the same vibrant paints that marked her clothes and skin. For a brief moment, her smile faltered, replaced by a look of mild surprise. A flicker of something else, something deeper, passed between us. Then it was gone, replaced by that familiar, sly smirk.

“Moltes gràcies.”

“I’m the one who’s grateful, Emmelia,” I said.

I took a look at the package in my hands. The painting wasn’t too big, but it was big enough that I couldn’t walk around carrying it all day. I guess I could head back to the hotel ... But then, trying to fit it into my luggage, explaining it at the flight check-in ... I almost had second thoughts, but then it hit me.

“Hey, can you send me that by mail? Malmö, Sweden.”

“¡No hay problema!” She took the package. “I can send it with Correos – it’ll take maybe a week or two. Where to?”

I handed her my business card. “This address. Please ship it at my expense, and don’t skimp on packaging.”

“D’acord, Daniel. Segur.” She nodded, then took her phone and quickly dialed my number. My phone buzzed. “Save my number, just in case. Ets un professional, si?” she winked.

“Sure,” I smiled. “You are a true artist, Emmelia. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

She seemed pleased with the compliment, yet somehow unimpressed at the same time. “Most people say that. But it’s not enough.”

“What’s not enough?”

“They say, and then they walk away. Compra. Camina.” She traced an imaginary path in the air with her paint-stained finger. “But they don’t get it, you know? They don’t feel the stories, they don’t get them whole. So ... it’s not enough.”

“I think I understand,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I did. She talked really strange. “I really do.”

“Bé. Good.” She looked at my card again. “Daniel ... what a strong name. Daniel, who knows what he’s doing, yes?”

I felt a strange warmth spread through my chest. “Something like that.”

“Genial! Bé, adéu!” She turned away without another word, already lost in conversation with the other artist again, their words a quickfire of pure Catalan I couldn’t follow. I stood there for a moment, the ghost of her touch still on my fingers, the phantom scent of weed and turpentine in the air, the promise of ... something I could not name. I took one last look at her – at the way the afternoon sun caught the gold in her messy hair, at the confident set of her thin shoulders despite her ragged appearance – and then I turned and walked away, the feeling of her lingering in my mind like a half-remembered song.