There are three remarkable things about Barcelona -- the art, the food and the overwhelming sense you get about every two blocks that a cesspool has just exploded.
I couldn't figure out how -- in a city as lovely as this -- that could be possible. But then one night, the wife and I were sitting on the balcony of the third-floor apartment we'd rented, just drinking sangria and catching up on our thumb twiddling, when we saw why. In the space of one hour, four different women came by, checked to see if anybody was looking, dropped their pants, squatted and peed between the parked cars below us.
Far worse, two of them had recently eaten asparagus.