An Afternoon on Montjuïc: Light, Silence, and a Book on the Grass

Fleeing the Jackhammers (To Find the Perfect Patch of Grass)

Some genius decided a national holiday was prime time to rip up the pavement below my flat—the kind of civic logic that makes one question democracy. So I fled to Montjuïc, where Barcelona’s chaos dissolves into slopes of pine and, miraculously, actual grass. Not the ornamental kind you’re forbidden to touch, but the lie-down-with-a-book variety. The place was peppered with families and sun-drunk couples, yet somehow the silence held. For hours, the only competition for my attention was the rustle of pages turning and the distant hum of a city I’d happily abandoned for the afternoon.

The Melancholy of Empty Spaces

Golden hour on the walk back revealed Montjuïc’s other gift: its talent for subtle drama. A deserted sports field, its lines faded but still visible, carried that peculiar beauty of places meant for crowds but left to the elements. There’s no real sadness in it—just the quiet acknowledgment that everything wears out eventually, even joy. The light helped, of course. That late-afternoon haze, like the city had exhaled and blurred the edges of things. My little Lumix, usually reserved for casual snaps, suddenly felt like a proper tool.

Then, the contrast: a nearly finished building, its sleek modernity framed by an old-world lamp post. Even the temporary barriers gleamed with newness. The light loved it all equally—the antique curves, the sharp angles, the way progress and history share the same patch of sidewalk. Sometimes photography feels like cheating when the world arranges itself this perfectly.

The Shots That Demand to Be Seen

I hadn’t planned to take anything worth keeping. But there they were on the screen later—those unplanned frames, effortless and true. Proof that the best images aren’t hunted. They’re gifts, tossed your way when you’re busy thinking about something else.