Prostitution evasion methods

Barcelona! It was crazy!
Too crazy to go chronologically. Barcelona will be better conveyed by a video montage that captured our time there.
This is the point where I would cue the video montage. But I don't have a camera. Or sound. Or audio-visual editing capabilities.
Cue the description of the Barcelona video montage:
The first day.
Cut to the first moment we stepped out of the metro station, our warm welcome to Barcelona:
It's broad daylight, abut 6 pm. An obese man walks around La Ramblas naked. We don´t know why.
Cut to dinner with Carmen, the Barcelona woman with whom we fell in love when we met her in Granada:
No sound. Just the Beatles "With a little help from my friends" playing over stills of us eating.
Cut to Sam and me exploring the nightlife:
I exit the hostel. A girl looking about a year younger than me grabs my arm and asks if I would like a handjob. I decline. In the nightclub, Greenday's American Idiot is playing to a mostly American crowd, and the crowd, for unknown reasons, is loving it.
The next day.
We met up with John's friend Edward and Edward's French-speaking friend JB. We head to the beach. At the beach, the camera gets a helicopter shot of Edward, JB and I swimming out to the rocks.
Later that night, John uses his Spanish to sweettalk our way into Shoko, a big, classy club on the beach, for free. The video´s narrator remarks how amazing it is for two well-dressed French and three badly-dressed Americans, all male, to get into a club for free.
Cut to the prostitute-saturated walk back to the hostel:
The prostitutes are aggressive. Some come up to you in twos are threes. About a third leave when you nod your head or say, "No." Most persist.
"Why 'No'?"
"We don't want anything."
"You don't want a good time?"
"No."
"I wasn't talking to you," one said to me. "I was talking to your friend."
"He doesn't want anything either," I said.
"I want to suck your dick," she told John.
"Well I don't want you to suck my dick," he explained.
They're tactics are pretty consistent, but some got creative.
"Hey funnyboy!" one said to Sam. I guess when being obvious fails, try abject meanness?
The third day.
Cut to shots of us looking at the buildings designed by Guadi. Best art I have ever seen.
Cut to dinner at my Dad's friend Elena's huge, ridiculously nice Barcelona pad, with a pond in the back by the patio:
More still shots of us eating, with the Sound of Music's "My Favorite Things" playing as mood music.
Cut to the walk back to the hostels after clubbing:
Earlier in the day, John and I had decided to have some fun with the prostitutes at their expense (and without paying for any of their services). John wanted to tell them he was a gay dancer. I wanted to tell them I was a journalist for the International Herald Tribune. (Each fulfilling our own fantasies, I guess.)
John came home around 3:30, a little too late for the prostitutes. But I headed home with Sam around 2:30, prime time.
The first prostitute made the subtle choice of miming oral sex and asking, "Sucka Sucka?"
I whipped out my...moleskin note pad and pen. I smiled broadly. She seemed confused.
"Hi, I'm Thomas Seercy from the Barcelona branch of the International Herald Tribune. We're doing a story on prostitution in Barcelona, and I'm wondering if I can get an interview."
She took a moment to register that I really meant "interview," then walked away without a word.
It worked 10 out of 10 times, the last prostitute summarizing the attitudes of the other ones with an amiable "Fuck you." They want anonymity, I guess. They really flinched at the word "prostitution." Perhaps they try not to see it that way.
The next day, we left on a train for Olot, a small town where John knows a family. It's amazing how easily we can hop cities. From Madrid, in the center of Spain, to Malaga, in the southeast, and eventually to Olot, in the northwest.