Weekends in Barcelona move at their own rhythm. Slower. Lighter. Almost like the city exhales after a long week, letting its shoulders drop and its heart open up. For me, weekends are about indulgence — not in the material sense, but in the soulful one. I don’t follow a strict plan, but I do follow a feeling. And most weekends, it leads me to the same little rituals that have become the backbone of my joy.
It usually starts with the markets.
Saturday mornings are reserved for Sant Antoni Market, a short walk from my flat but far enough to feel like a mini pilgrimage. The building itself is beautiful — a modernist iron structure wrapped around local life. I stroll through the stalls with a cloth bag slung over my shoulder, no list, just inspiration. Fresh tomatoes that still smell like the sun, wedges of manchego wrapped in wax paper, a sprig of rosemary handed to me by an old woman who says, “Para la suerte.” For luck.
There’s something deeply romantic about shopping this way. It’s not just about buying food — it’s about participating in life. Exchanging smiles, stories, and small talk. I often stop at a stall that sells second-hand books and flip through yellowing pages until one speaks to me. Last week, I found a book of Lorca poems and ended up reading half of it under a tree in Parc de la Ciutadella.
By midday, the Mediterranean sun is high, and my stomach is singing. I might head toward the beach or stop at a terrace in El Born for tapas. I have a favorite spot with string lights and just enough breeze — where the patatas bravas are sinful and the white wine tastes like summer. I often come alone. Not because I don’t enjoy company, but because I enjoy my own company. There’s power in that.
Afternoons, especially on Saturdays, are made for music. If the weather is nice (and it usually is), I’ll wander down to Barceloneta and find the street musicians that play on the promenade. Flamenco guitar, saxophone solos, a violinist who plays Coldplay like it’s classical. Sometimes I’ll just sit on the sand and let the rhythm move through me, soaking in the sun, the sound, the scent of salt in the air.
But my favorite time of the weekend is golden hour.
There’s a rooftop I love — I won’t name it, because it feels like a secret — but it has panoramic views over the old city. I bring a small bottle of cava, a journal, or sometimes just myself and the sky. The way the sun kisses the terracotta rooftops, turning them into honey and fire, it never gets old. I feel like I’m watching the city fall in love with itself.
Sundays are quieter. Softer. Sometimes I’ll take a yoga class in Gràcia, or spend hours wandering the narrow streets of the Raval. I might meet a friend for brunch, or just lay in bed with my favorite records playing — Sade, Nina Simone, or something jazzy. The mood shifts from celebration to reflection. It’s less about doing, more about being.
I like to end my weekend with something that feels sacred. Maybe it’s lighting a candle. Maybe it’s writing a love letter to myself. Maybe it’s calling someone I miss. It doesn’t matter what — it just matters that it’s done with intention. That I go to bed Sunday night feeling nourished in ways no restaurant or spa could ever offer.
My weekends aren’t glamorous in the traditional sense. No flashy parties, no grand gestures. But they are deeply mine. They’re a mosaic of small pleasures — the kind you might miss if you’re always chasing something bigger.
So when people ask me, “What do you do on weekends?” I just smile and say, “I live them.”