From a mysterious hand to wounded stones, small landscapes that pulsate in Barcelona

Walking aimlessly. A discreet, almost forgotten pleasure, especially in a city that pushes us to run, to move forward with a clear destination, to cross streets barely looking at them, trapped by mobile notifications and the impatient ticking of the clock. And yet, a word from the dictionary —to wander— reminds us that doing so is not only possible, but also revealing. It is when the pace slows down that Barcelona shows its hidden treasures: stones that hold ancient stories, reliefs and signs that speak of past times, or the thirteen geese in the Cathedral cloister that, oblivious to the gaze of tourists and Barcelonians, walk with a serenity that defies the city's accelerated rhythm.

It is in this attentive gaze that the so-called Petits paisatges (Small Landscapes) emerge. Elements identified by the Municipal Institute of Urban Landscape and Quality of Life —created in 1997 to ensure the protection, improvement, and dissemination of the urban landscape— which has compiled an inventory of more than fifty. Small elements, discreet but alive, that preserve the memory of the city.

Some are quite well-known. The panots we step on every day —designed by the company F. Escofet y Cia., winner of the 1916 municipal competition— or the shrapnel scars on the facade of Sant Felip Neri, testimony to the bombing of January 30, 1938, when Italian fascist aviation (allied with Franco) dropped two bombs that killed 42 people, 23 of them children. Others, however, go unnoticed amidst monumental facades and the daily hustle and bustle.

Many of these elements are marked with a steel plaque embedded in the pavement that highlights their uniqueness. Some have been restored to ensure their conservation in a constantly transforming city. The objective of this list of Petits paisatges is simple and, at the same time, ambitious: to prevent these minor testimonies from disappearing and to keep them alive in memory.

You just have to look up to start discovering them. Or, in some cases, look down. And, above all, dare to walk without rushing.

Fragments of an (in)visible past

A small hill, 16 meters above sea level, tells us about the origins of the city. This is the Mont Tàber or Mont del Miracle, a vestige of the first Roman settlement of Barcino. Today, a millstone on the ground, in front of the current Centre Excursionista de Catalunya (Paradís, 10) —which inside hides another of the city's best-kept secrets, the Roman Temple of Augustus— marks the highest point of Roman Barcelona. This is the point of origin of the city and also the beginning of a route that leads through these Petits paisatges, which rewards those who dare to stop and look.

Landscapes that speak of the history of the city and its inhabitants, such as the strange hole in the facade of the old Casa de la Misericòrdia (Ramelleres, 17) —current Citizen Attention Office of Ciutat Vella—. This element hides a moving story: it is a large wooden wheel where babies could be left anonymously: introduce the newborn, turn the mechanism for it to enter the hospice, and leave.

A few steps further, in the Casa de l'Ardiaca (Santa Llúcia, 1), amidst the flow of pedestrians, there is a small mailbox surrounded by natural elements. Designed by Domènech i Montaner, it is decorated with ivy leaves, five swallows, and a turtle. Although there is no single explanation accepted by historians, the most popular interpretation states that it is a metaphor for the slowness of bureaucratic procedures: the ivy leaves would represent bureaucracy, the swallows the speed that justice should have, and the turtle the slowness with which it actually progresses. A metaphor that connects with the use of the building at that time, headquarters of the Bar Association.

But, beyond stories, the city also preserves wounds. On Sócrates street, 2, a cannon embedded in the facade recalls the bombardment ordered by General Espartero on the fateful September 22, 1842, with the aim of repressing a latent revolt. In the same district, the graffiti of the unknown militiaman (Sant Josep Oriol square, 8) pays homage to those who fought and died for their ideals.

From Congrés to Barceloneta

If in Ciutat Vella we contemplated the vestiges of the first Roman settlement, more than twenty centuries ago, in the Congrés neighborhood we find physical proof of the city's expansion. The first stone of the Congress Housing (Felip II, 186) marks the beginning of a unique neighborhood, built for a religious reason: the International Eucharistic Congress of 1952, the first major international event since the Civil War, which forced the city to open up and welcome new inhabitants.

From this point begins a route through the less visible corners, which extend throughout the city. It is a route that forces one to look up at the facades, because Barcelona keeps its secrets in unexpected places. Why are there so many snails carved in stone in Tamarit, 89? According to urban legend, the building's developer found a treasure while looking for snails; and with that money he was able to build his house in 1986. It seems, then, that the owner wanted to perpetuate the memory, scattering snails all over the facade: under balconies, on columns, and even in figures representing peasants in full search.

And what about Picasso's sculpture above the Bosque cinemas, at Rambla del Prat, 16? The 1917 commission to Pau Gargallo, by the Gran Teatre del Bosc —a performance venue since the second half of the 19th century— led the artist to portray four personalities of the time: the painters Isidre Nonell and Pablo Picasso, Dr. Jacint Reventós and himself, with forced, almost comical expressions. And there is still the last enigma: the hand sculpted on a pillar in Barceloneta (Sant Carles, 35). The theories are multiple —even referring to Freemasonry or black magic—, but no historian or neighbor can say with certainty what this bas-relief sculpted on an 1875 facade represents.

Covert advertising

Among these vestiges, the Cottet thermometer, in Portal de l'Àngel, stands out. Two tons and 22 meters long, it has witnessed snowfalls, blizzards, and the daily transit of tourists, and has resisted constant restorations. Originally, however, it was an advertisement for the optician Roland Cottet, who decided to place it on the facade of his shop.

The same goes for another element integrated into the landscape of one of the city's major arteries: the Banco Bilbao Vizcaya Argentaria (BBVA) clock, in Plaça Catalunya. Its enormous hands slowly turn over Roman numerals, crowning a building inaugurated in 1952 and restored on several occasions. And if we talk about relevant clocks, we cannot overlook another witness of time: the siphon clock, on Avenida de Roma, 105. This recalls the artisanal factories and sodas that thrived in 20th-century Barcelona, many of which disappeared from the 1950s onwards. Twice its real size, this clock was installed by the owner of the siphon factory, A. Puértolas, as an advertisement to differentiate himself from the competition.

Today, the Municipal Institute of Urban Landscape and Quality of Life ensures that urban furniture is not used for advertising purposes without prior authorization —ensuring, for example, that construction scaffolding does not become advertising material without approval—, but it is this same body that has converted past advertising elements into Petits paisatges, as vestiges of a specific aesthetic and era. Examples include the three murals of Alcoholes Antich, on Ronda de Sant Pau, 32, with their colored glass tesserae, or the posters of Canonge, which evoke the activities of Fructuós Canonge, who combined magic with the profession of shoeblack.

And... even geese are living landscape

Like these geese, which seem to live peacefully in their environment, away from the gaze of tourists and Barcelonians, the city rewards those who walk slowly, who stop to look at those small corners, who dare to discover it with delicacy and pause. Only those who walk this way can truly feel how the city pulsates in every corner.