1492 and everything after

A confused, chaotic city, fighting back the flood of unwelcome immigrants, embracing its ugly-beautiful modernist style and its newly-found status of European tourist mecca, Barcelona reeks of history.

The Mediterranean has washed onto its Catalan shore a number of freakish figures of importance as far as "Western" history written by men is concerned. One of these figures, in all his ambiguity, depicts the hodgepodge character of Barcelona rather accurately.

Cristóbal Colón, of debatable origin, has a statue erected at the end of one of the most touristy streets in the celebrated, foul-smelling capital of Catalonia. Tourists swarm around him, capturing his image to add to their collection of uninteresting musts and soon forgotten souvenirs.

Why is he there in the middle of Barcelona, circled by cars, pickpockets and fat people with cameras?

His anglicised self, Christopher Columbus, "sailed the ocean blue" in 1492 and, according to the legend, "discovered" what is now known by some as "America". He became something of a celebrity and was received by the royals in Barcelona. Hundreds of years later, his name butchered and translated into numerous languages that claim him as their own, he remains at the top of the list of the obligatory colonisers whose names and life stories elementary school children have to memorise. That may be reason enough to be standing on top of a pole for everyone to see.

But between his travels, how did Colón feel being in Barcelona, a famous stranger walking around the piss-infected streets in his purple robes and heavy hat? Faded by the Atlantic winds, did he have the strength to go and climb up the steps of the royal court to greet the King and Queen? Did he sneak out to fuck the prostitutes in the shadows of El Raval, just to get a breath of fresh air from the stuffy alleys within the city walls? Did he drink fermented sugarcane juice from his own little bottle in a bar with an Arabic name? Did he, bleary from his voyage, want to just curl up into a ball and drown himself in the caresses of the rum-coloured woman he had left behind?

The tourists won´t leave him alone. He remains there on top of the pillar, a lonely creature longing to escape the circus, his stoney eyes looking across the waves, his accusing finger pointing at the sea.