The more I think about it, the more unprepared I am. I'm a perfectionist in disguise, planning every extract of experience. I’ve always envied this city, but in a sense that I will be there someday. I told mom it was “sunshiny and tropical” when we arrived, pulling my Samsonite luggage across the walkalator along the overhead bridge; not knowing that after the train, there was still a long distance till we reach the hotel. The camera didn’t make anything easier.
But I was there. I was standing on soil entrenched with artists’ life, Salvador Dali –oh yes “The Persistence of Memory” – and grimy streets with drunks. On the second night, I witnessed a drunk stealing wine bottles from Carrefour. He walked right though the sensors without getting caught, he hid the white wine under his shirt, tucked, kept away for segueing the addiction. Magicians, asking me to pick cards; “konichiwa! Are you Japanese?” “ni hao ma?” The country is diluted with nationalities, painted with languages.
Sagrada Familia reminded me of glass houses because of its colour tinted windows, obelisque round edged architecture with ongoing construction. Dad’s conversation with me;
“Could you possibly photoshop out the construction from the photos?”
Being stingy, I didn’t take the elevator nor the 155 (?) steps up the tower for more than 20 euros. I was hungry anyway, and food is always a good thing.
I sleep well during the night because the room was a warm cove, with free internet access and a lovely library at the lobby with books on art and history. The window view delighted me because morning was rosy pink that landed on the roofs of old buildings and skies that are somewhere between yellow and blue.
I couldn’t possibly bring myself to talk to friends because this was something I wanted to do alone. I ignored smses, replying some half-heartedly because love just wasn’t far enough to reach me, some kind of grey matter between northern hemisphere all the way to the equator. I picked up a postcard from Hard Rock which reminded me of my friend Eugene and his red guitar and I gave it to him when I returned home, thrilled myself spending money on cheap clothes (Zara is the best thing that has ever happened in Spain) , writing and taking photos.
Roamed the streets at night, felt jet-lagged every single day but it has got to be worth it coming this far, strolling along the pier watching people kiss but not having anyone else’s hand to hold, but it’s okay. But mostly just drinking coffee and talking, and most importantly just keeping my heart intact and safe where it should belong.
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