At the bottom of the Ramblas, a stone’s throw from Barcelona’s port, we find a sign advertising a Salvador Dali Museum. There are official Dali Museums outside of Barcelona, but this isn’t one of them. We creep up the stairs to what seems to be a private apartment and are greeted by an older eccentric-looking gentleman, who promptly disappears.
We wander through the apparently infinite rooms of his apartment, surveying increasingly pornographic portraits of himself, Salvador Dali, and a woman with long blonde hair and impossibly round breasts. There is an undoubtedly Dali approach to many of the paintings, and Mr Dali’s image occupies many of the frames, but to label the place a “Dali Museum” is something of a stretch.
We emerge, giggling nervously, in the light of the midday sun.
“That was weird”, says H.