Earlier this evening I attacked a bomba, a chili-fired ham and potato croquette. Local revolutionaries devised the name of this tapa bar snack in the 1930s. And yes, it does mean “bomb.” Back then, Barcelona’s citizens weren’t averse to chucking the real things.

Glass of red wine in hand, I’m now in La Concha, one of central Barcelona’s last surviving dive bars. On Carrer Guardia in the old Barri Xino, it features peeling wallpaper, overflowing ashtrays, and a clientele who look anything but “hip and cool.”

Film posters of vintage Spanish actress Sara Montiel adorn its walls. It’s hard to be certain in the dim red lighting, but I’d guess some elderly drag queens are among the worshippers at her shrine.

Not Barcelona’s usual image. But I can’t resist crooked paths. For me, one of the city’s most alluring facets is its subversive, shady past. Few visitors realize it has one.

Barcelona’s marketing mantra is of chic, cool cosmopolitanism…of a carnival that never stops. That day and night, it fizzes like Cava, the local version of Champagne. All true. Yet not too long ago, this sunny Mediterranean city barely registered on travelers’ maps.

If you knew Barcelona before the 1992 Olympics, the transformation isn’t just remarkable—it’s almost unbelievable. Last year, it enticed more than 6.5 million tourists to its honey-pots: the medieval Barri Gotic (gothic quarter) and Boqueria market; the Sagrada Familia and Gaudi’s fairytale modernist creations; the central boulevard called the Ramblas, which arrows down to the sea; the golden beaches beyond Port Olimpic.

On a first visit, sure, get to know “gaudy Gaudi” and enjoy the big-ticket sights of this beautiful city. But spare some time to delve into less-trodden neighborhoods.

Beyond the achingly stylish designer bars with $12 cocktails, there’s another Barcelona—one that’s been airbrushed from the tourism brochures. One with local “ramblas,” where boys play soccer, old ladies walk dogs, and friends sit on benches socializing.

Here, activists commandeer derelict spaces and transform them into community gardens. Locals run café-bars—the kind where posters of soccer players hang above the snack counter, the TV is on permanently, and workmen puff Fortuna cigarettes over beers and bocadillos. Oh, and someone is always cursing or kicking the slot machine.

Where to find it? Get into neighborhoods like Gracia, Poble Sec, and Poblenou. Wander the streets of El Raval and around Sant Antoni market.

If you dream of spending time in “traditional” Spain, Barcelona might not fit the bill. I know, that sounds demented. Let me explain.

Spain’s second largest city is also the capital of the autonomous region of Catalunya. (Catalonia in Spanish.) Fiercely proud of their identity, most locals consider themselves Catalan, not Spanish.

Barcelonans do speak Spanish, but only if they must. A street is a carrer, not a calle…beaches are platjes, not playas…milky coffee is cafe amb llet, not cafe con leche. You’ll hear and see the Catalan language everywhere.

Things weren’t so complicated when I visited as a teenager in 1971. Barcelona was then as indisputably Spanish as flamenco and castanets.

Remember that year? Nixon was America’s president—and General Franco still ruled Spain with an iron fist.

Stalked by Franco’s ghost

The Barcelona I first encountered was a down-at-heel port town, still floundering on the wrong side of Spanish Civil War history. The Sagrada Familia and the Rambla flower-sellers were on the agenda, but everywhere seemed gray and drab.

No dreadlocked skateboarders or gay pride marchers back then. Despite centuries of tradition, even the renowned “human tower” castellers that always perform at major festivals were banned during the Franco years.

If that’s what people want to do, why stop them from standing on each other’s shoulders in formations that can reach nine levels high? Well, castellers are a Catalan tradition. Under Franco, everything that smacked of Catalan identity was suppressed: their red-and-gold flag; Sardana dances; certain festivals. The Catalan language could only be spoken at home.

Understanding today’s Barcelona is impossible without knowing something of Spain’s slide into dictatorship. One riveting account of the Spanish Civil War era is George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. Arriving in 1936, he was astonished by the city’s alphabet soup of anarchist and leftist factions:

“It was the first time that I had ever been in a town where the working class was in the saddle. Practically every building had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with the red and black flag of the Anarchists; every wall was scrawled with the hammer and sickle and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost every church had been gutted and its images burnt.”

The members of the proletariat paid heavily for their stand until Franco’s death in 1975. The only way to protest at the master in Madrid was by waving the blue-and-claret flag of FC Barcelona, their iconic soccer club.

Although Franco ruled Spain for almost 40 years, he’s now a non-person. Plaques torn down, statues toppled. There used to be one of him on horseback on Montjuic hill, enjoying a classic lookout over the sea and city. Not any more.

With gardens, museums, a “magic fountain,” and galleries including the surrealist Joan Miro Foundation, you can easily spend all day on Montjuic. Yet it too has a dark side. Until 1960, its summit fortress housed political prisoners. Franco had one of the Catalan leaders executed here in 1940.

More Than a Soccer Club

Holding 98,000 spectators, Camp Nou is FC Barcelona’s home. 2009’s European Champions, “Barça’s” motto is més que un club (more than a club). This concept includes promoting Catalan culture, language, and identity. Matches against Real Madrid are always electric.

Players don’t wear a sponsor’s logo on jerseys—they sport UNICEF’s logo. Barça has committed to donating €1.5 million to humanitarian aid programs. For match tickets and more, see: www.fcbarcelona.com. Touring the grounds and club museum costs €17 ($24.75).

Barcelona’s anti-establishment stance goes way back. This year is the centenary of Setmana Tragica, or Tragic Week. Commemorations include a “Barcelona in Flames” photography exhibition in Montjuic Castle.

The flames were real enough. In July 1909, protests against the call-up of troops for war in Morocco soon became full-scale insurrection. Workers manned street barricades and burned down churches and convents. (Sons of the rich could pay to avoid conscription, and the Church belonged to the despised ruling class.) More than 1,700 people were charged with armed rebellion. Five received death sentences.

The man who entices many to Barcelona saw it all. Among Antoni Gaudi’s showstopper buildings is the curvaceous La Pedrera. Try to imagine it crowned with a gigantic statue of the Virgin. Until Tragic Week’s events, that was Gaudi’s intention. The Mila family, who commissioned the project, said no. Their concern was that it might get mistaken for a religious establishment.

Unraveling in El Raval

More of Barcelona’s hidden past lingers on in El Raval neighborhood. West of the Ramblas, scented with aromas of Turkish kebabs, it was once notorious for vice dens and absinthe bars. Naturally, most sailors headed for its spider web streets.

The port end of El Raval—Barri Xino—remains something of a red light district. Picasso, then resident in Barcelona, spent much of 1899 roistering in its brothels. One square is named after Frenchman Jean Genet. His Journal du Voleur (Thief’s Journal) describes his 1930s lifestyle here. When not thieving, he worked as a male prostitute.

Although nervy writers warn against venturing into El Raval after dark, I chose to stay here. A largely immigrant neighborhood, it’s gradually losing its edginess. Druggies have been tumbled from their squats; slum tenements have been demolished to make way for the Museum of Contemporary Art and a new rambla, the Rambla del Raval. Its focal point is a giant black cat sculpture by Colombian artist Fernando Botero. Art for the people—local kids clamber all over it.

My $116.50-per-night apartment was on the cheerfully scruffy C/de la Cera. Its name stems from medieval times, when it was awash in rivers of wax. A gypsy community reputedly burned numerous wax candles to the Virgin as protection against plague.

Rambling the Ramblas

Rambla comes from an Arabic term for riverbed. The Ramblas is the long boulevard between Plaça Catalunya and the Mediterranean. The middle is for pedestrians, moving statues, and pickpockets. (That’s no joke, be careful.) Don’t confuse it with Rambla de Catalunya, Rambla del Poblenou, Rambla del Raval, or various other rambla locations.

There’s a traditional bakery, cheese shop, tiny grocery stores, a Pakistani barber, and the Pesce Salada (Salty Fish) bar opposite the apartment. It’s bohemian…and noisy. Normal closing time seems to be 3 a.m.; Saturday night, it rocked on until dawn. With a music teacher giving private lessons next door, sleep isn’t easy.

Although in a different neighborhood, Sant Antoni metro station is only around the corner. So is its market. With its gangs of pensioner shoppers, Sant Antoni’s market seems more authentic than the touristy Boqueria. Beyond the mounds of inexpensive fruit and vegetables, there’s enough offal, sheep heads, and bulging-eyed fish to give the squeamish endless nightmares. On Sundays, secondhand booksellers congregate outside the entrance. Directly opposite, Els Tres Tombs does a great menu del dia lunch.

Back in El Raval, on C/de l’Hospital, there’s an archway into Antic Hospital de la Santa Creu’s gothic garden. Its 15th-century stone walls once housed a hospital for lepers, and then paupers. After being hit by a tram in 1926, Gaudi breathed his last here. Today, it combines an art school, library, and exhibition spaces. Under colonnades, El Jardi café and tapas bar attracts book-reading students.