You love this city. When you step off the plane your feet mold to the ground and you can feel it; this is the kind of place you think of when you say let’s get away

On Sunday, your mom leaves and at first you want to cry but soon you feel fine. You want to walk around and see things one last time. Everyone’s shoes look brand new, the white ones so white you swear it’s an illusion. There are so many people but it’s abnormally quiet, except for conversations in languages you don’t understand and it doesn’t matter what they’re saying it always sounds beautiful. You see kids poking at bubbles and street music with people who actually sit to listen. You see pedestrians who won’t cross the street until the walking sign turns green, even with no cars in sight. You find that odd, but endearing.

You walk so fast because you’re taking it all in, wondering have I seen enough? The fresh air stings your nostrils in the same way it does when you step out of a steam room or swim to the surface of the ocean. Your nose starts to run and later the concierge, who is printing your boarding pass and looks like a model straight out of GQ, asks if you’re alright. You laugh ’cause it’s only then you realize you’re breathing heavy and sniffling like mad. I’m fine, you say.

You walk out of the hotel ready to hail a taxi and look to your left to see a pretty brunette standing with crossed arms and closed eyes, face looking up, soaking in whatever the sun will give her. You think, yeah girl I get it. You keep walking and look back and she’s still at it with the sun. And you’re pretty sure after that this could be the most perfect place on earth.

One thought on “barcelona

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