10:39am Wednesday 8th October 2008
By Emma Clayton
There it was, nestled between the Sagrada Familia paperweight and the matador and bull-shaped salt and pepper pots.
A set of Gaudi-inspired fridge magnets that might as well have had a neon sign on top flashing the words 'buy me.'
Days after returning from a recent break in Barcelona I found myself still unravelling yards of bubble wrap containing endless trinkets I bought in the city.
Pencils with plastic Gaudi lizards on top; mosaic tealight pots; Casa Batlló bookmarks; Catalonian fans; coffee table books; a notebook featuring some kind of Picasso design. I don't even like Picasso.
I spent a small fortune on what could be described as tat. Things I don't need. Novelty gifts for family and friends that will probably end up in the back of a drawer.
When in London I wouldn't dream of buying a Union Jack top hat, a Queen Mother thimble or a Tower Bridge mouse mat. I've sneered at tourists wearing Lady Di baseball caps, telling myself that sort of tat is for Japanese and American tour bus parties and bridge-and-tunnel daytrippers.
Yet when I'm visiting other European cities I can't walk past a souvenir shop window without checking out the merchandise. I'm lured in by the lights, colours and plastic Spanish dolls - before I know it I'm paying five euros for a novelty pencil sharpener.
Barcelona is a beautiful city and I was blown away by the buildings, the parks, the lovely old streets. I marvelled at the swirling facade of Casa Batlló, swooned at the rooftop sculpture of la Pedrera and gazed open-mouthed at the fabulous decor of the Palau de la Musica.
But for every stunning Gaudi design, there was a souvenir candlestick that had me reaching for my purse.
The Sagrada Familia is Antoni Gaudi's masterpiece, described as one of the wonders of the world. The stonework, featuring intricate Nativity and Crucifixion scenes, is breathtaking. The sheer scale of the design and the genius of its creator stirs the soul. Yet as soon as I spotted the souvenir shop my pulse rate quickened.
I spotted some postcards to add to the collection I'd already amassed. I gazed longingly at a Sagrada Familia snowstorm. I actually picked up a miniature bottle of sangria with a tiny sombrero and maracas dangling off it.
Suddenly something inside me saw reason and I snapped out of my trance. "Step away from the sombrero!" boomed a voice in my head. "Put down the fridge magnets!"
Souvenir shopping continues until I board the plane. Once in the airport, there's the lure of duty free. I treat myself to posh skincare products, kidding myself they're loads cheaper than back home, and buy over-sized tubes of sweets and boxes of novelty biscuits, simply because they're there.
There was a time when sunburnt Brits returned from Spanish holidays wearing massive sombreros, clutching straw donkeys under their arm.
Sorting out all my tat, in the cold light of a British autumn day, I realised I'm no different.
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