Sorry to build the suspense, but I have to contextualize this, because again, I was so oblivious to it at first, that when it happened, I was so shocked, disgusted, and confused. And a bit saddened as well. I was clothed, covered, and respectable. Whether that be in a long, flowing skirt or in jeans and a peacoat, there are just some regions of the world who see black skin on a woman, and assume that the only way I was able to afford to get there and stay there , was by way of selling my body to a local.
It was a mix between a look of congratulations to my friend and a look of dirtiness to me. My friend and I looked at each other, mutually sensing the discomfort of the situation, but still in the dark about why we were attracting such strange expressions. I started becoming self-conscious but more observant of everyone around us, wondering why we were getting so much attention. And then I locked eyes with what looked like a West-African specifically, Nigerian woman.
I only specify she was Nigerian, because I can spot my own both parents were born and raised there , and this will make sense later. She stared me up and down, then looked at my German friend, eyeballed his crotch area, then looked at me again and muttered something to her friend nearby. We made our way off the main strip of La Rambla, and off to the smaller sidewalk, because it just became too uncomfortable. You see, most African prostitutes wear coats, scarves, sweaters, and jeans.
Just like me. Therefore, making us almost indistinguishable. I was an empty corner away from looking like one of them, and the embarrassment was enough to keep me away from that street past dark for the remainder of my time in Barcelona.
I tried hard to forget about that night, and my friend and I only talked about it once over coffee, before agreeing to pretend it never happened. It was awkward.
