I'd been following the currents of Barcelona's ring roads, round endless circuits of one-way hell, through the outskirts that head for the mountains, even into the mountains, back down to the beach and everywhere in between, just looking for a place to stop for an hour or two, where I wouldn't be towed, so I could enjoy a long-overdue snack with something like a view - and maybe something like air, if I was really lucky.

Six hours went by, along with a good portion of fuel and most of my nerves, when I finally lucked out. A single space, just long enough for my wagon, with no height barrier. Tucked away at the end of a long line of immovable vehicles, just in front of a picture-perfect sea view and a two-minute walk from the naturist beach; a damned-near perfect find for a summer's afternoon, and a spot I chose to call home for a good month or so, owing to the memory of trying to find it, which came rushing to mind every time I contemplated a change of scenery - which was rare, admittedly.

Over the days and weeks that followed, I found some kind of routine, became somewhat familiar with the locals and gained a deeper understanding of the meanings of specific noises and sensations; A soft but attention-grabbing lurch, followed by glooping of water tanks, for example, means a Spanish driver is trying to park in front of you and wishes to move your three-and-a-half-ton rig a few feet back, to facilitate the maneuver.

I became accustomed to this one after about the seventh or eighth occurrence, and came to think of it somehow fondly, as a sort of hallmark of this part of the world. I dubbed it "The Catalan Nudge" - a move I later witnessed from afar, with great enjoyment, and, if I'm honest, did also try out for myself, once or twice, just to fit in - literally, in both cases - and I did find it cheeky and fun when I wasn't being woken up by it.

One morning, I was enjoying a warm drink on Burt's porch, overlooking my sprawling back yard, when I spotted a guy dressed in a leopard-print leotard, riding a motorbike and carrying a guitar on his back. In my amusement at the sight, the thought never crossed my mind that he would later become something of a fixture - and he did, showing up again after my move up the mountain, and even once in a nearby town. In every case, sporting the leotard and guitar and he looked about as great as you might be imagining at the present moment.

I used to sit on the porch, staring out at the world, wondering whether I'd see Leopard Boy, or how many Catalan Nudges I might be party to. Some days, I would go to bed disappointed, but just now and then, I'd hit the jackpot, accumulating multiple Leopard Boy sightings and being a part of at least one Nudge in the same day, such were the stakes.

In the early summer, when I was still new in town, I used to cycle out to the Gothic Quarter, just to see the architecture and to really absorb the feeling of being in the big city I'd spent so much time dreaming about. I loved hearing all the Spanish and Catalan conversations and reading all the signs. I was always glad for my bike. Walking in the heat is hard enough, but some of the roads are so long and straight, just starting out on them is demoralizing; it would feel like years to walk them. With the bike, you can make lighter work of them, plus you can generate a pretty decent breeze, to boot.

As real summer laid on and humidity increased to unreasonable levels, so my aimless wandering became more structured and needs-based; I started needing reasons to leave the porch, and some of those reasons weren't good enough and were rejected. I still took myself out at least every other day, but I started to see why half the city seemed to live on the beach. And so, I became one of them, at last.

And I snoozed like I meant it. If I took one thing away from Spanish summer, siesta is the word.

The Leo-pard Leo-tard of BCN.

Evidence of a Catalan Nudge.