Mid Night Madness

In a drunken yet somewhat enlightened state I write the following:
Barcelona is brilliant. It is captivating and alluring. But tonight I saw the underbelly of the city which lurks beyond Miro and Picasso.
The streets at night are dark and cold. I walk with head down and handbag tight against my side. My boots click conspicuoulsy against the cobble stones. I wish to belong, to not feel like an outsider. To not feel vulnerable. It is past the hour when the Good Folk are out. The rest of the city to emerges, sticks its grimy head outside and takes over the streets, the sprayed walls and laneways strewed with daily offerings of garbage.