I went out early to escape the weekend rush, expecting only the usual café chairs and sunbathers by the marina. But something louder greeted me — deep, echoing rhythms bouncing between the buildings. I followed the sound.

The plaza outside Museu Marítim was half-full with folding chairs, crates marked “Zildjian,” and a woman in black balancing a djembe on her knee. I watched her tune it with both hands and what looked like a wrench. She nodded at me like we were in on the same thing.

It turns out this week is the Barcelona Percussion Festival, with free performances every day until Sunday. I didn’t know percussionists travelled the world like this—South Africa, Argentina, Norway—each with a different beat but the same call to gather.

I stayed longer than I planned. A trio from Istanbul played rhythms that made even the man selling bottled water sway a little. People didn’t clap much, but no one left. The drums seemed to take over the conversation entirely.

I bought a tea, sat on a bench, and listened to a workshop leader explain how to “breathe with the rhythm.” It sounded suspiciously like something a yoga teacher would say, but in that moment, it made sense. The whole square was breathing with them.

By noon, I hadn’t gone to the café or bought my groceries. But I didn’t mind. It’s rare to watch strangers connect like that, without talking, without screens. Just timing, attention, and something hitting wood or skin at exactly the right second