Late on a rainy afternoon in Barcelona, my boyfriend and I are stirred from our siesta by a very familiar song coming from the Spanish music channel playing in our hotel room. I'm sure I must be hearing things until I see the friendly faces of the Finn brothers accusing me of always taking the weather with me.

In this case, they're quite right as outside it looks very much like England. Even thought I'm a patriotic fan of Crowded House, hearing them here makes me want to pack in the siesta and experience some real Spanish culture. It's a small world, but not that small.
 
It being Saturday, we don our party clothes and prepare to paint the town red, starting in the chaotic tourist zone of Port Vell. Here we shun a waterside drink like the swanky people are doing and we sit on concrete steps to watch the most entertaining buskers I've ever seen.

Four cheeky chaps who really know their instruments are playing, singing and dancing to an ever-increasing and enthusiastic crowd. Their Spanish style and exuberance has us transfixed until we realise the sun is setting and Barcelona awaits.
 
We walk up the world famous La Rambla, so packed with tourists we can barely move, past beggars and market stalls, caged birds and reptiles, street entertainers and sex shops. We stop off in a small pub and while the barman's crushing mint for my mojito I realise we've made a mammoth mistake. We are surrounded by British people bemoaning the football scores which are being announced on the TV overhead.
 
It's definitely time for 'real' Spanish culture so we go to a music show where they whip the tourists in for half-hour sessions before we're given the boot, which leads to some very unclassy (and unwise) sangria skulling.

Lucky it's 'tourist sangria' and tastes just like juice. The musicians are amazing though and the highlight comes when a woman as angry as a bull does a firey flamenco dance, stomping expertly around the stage with overwhelming passion.
 
After the show we go on a tapas hunt but we're distracted by a mysterious beat coming from a nearby plaza in the Barri Gotic (Gothic Quarter). Reminded of spontaneous street parties in South America, we follow the noise and discover a group of young drummers surrounded by locals going loco to the throbbing beat.

What luck! We stay and dance in the plaza alongside baffled toddlers and their dancing, smiling parents. We're unsure of the reason behind the fun, although it is All Saints Day so I assume the revelry is related to the special day.
 

Straight from the street boogie we go to a recommended 'pintxo' bar which we discover is our idea of heaven. Pintxo is the Barcelona version of tapas where everything is served on a long bar like a buffet. It's basically the art of eating finger food for dinner with the little portions typically coming on slices of crusty bread with long tootpicks through the middle. It works on honesty - at the end of your pintxo session, you hand in your tootpicks and pay per piece.

The food is amazing and after delicious surimi, parma ham and caviar, we are rolling ourselves home when we hear yet more beating drums and screaming people.
 
And then we notice the giant dragon, a 10 foot tall costume with huge sticks of sizzle fireworks sticking up each nostril. The dragon is leading a group of drummers and dancers through the streets of Barcelona and people are going nuts.

Without a thought we join the end of the line and 'conga' half the way home, only stopping each time the nostril sparklers fizzle out and need to be replaced. Halfway through my boyfriend fires off a text to the rellies in New Zealand, saying 'We're chasing the dragon in Barcelona'. Who knows what they thought of that back home...

Check out more photos from my trip in my Flickr album.

Find out about Barcelona.

Read more of Kelly's blogs.