Through recent events I’ve realized it takes an excruciatingly long time for me to parade through present day holding the things I love most; to publicly share my visions. Partially because I’m selfish: I like my memories to replay for me while the past is still untainted by anyone else’s opinion—as if its reminiscence deludes in value the moment it leaks from eager lips or otherwise, but more so because I’m warped in believing the things I love most, the things I’m most proud of or yearn to do, they must be absolutely perfect in what they are and presented in an absolutely perfect way. And an idealist’s pursuit of perfection is a deadly, infinity draining disease, and surely why beginnings are unprecedented but endings are often undone for me.
Barcelona is one of those things. Just short of a year later, at my own fault, I fear I don’t have much to say now; I don’t have any grande narrative of our escapades, not even the slightest recollection of the foreign foods I found on my plate. We were there for two days, finally reaching the last stop on an equally exhilarating and exhausting tour through five counties over the span of ten days—maybe if we were allowed even a second unrushed, perhaps my mirage would be more decorated. Everything is wilted now, like perfectly dried fragility set between the pages of my fading memory; the details flattened, having closed into themselves.
If nothing else, I will say I’ve tried to find home in many places, in many people, but this city was never home to me. It was heaven—it’s where you go when it’s all over; after home, too, closes you out or breaks you down or just wears you to the bone—or as for me, it ceases to exist at all, but there is no need to explain because Barcelona won’t ask. The city doesn’t care to know where you came from, why you’ve come, or how long it’ll be before you leave—she’s just glad to see you for as long as she has you, hoping you’ll return as often as her sea touches shore. Her opinions exist only in modest secret, and every evening she slowly pulls pastel sheaths over the sun like shades.
Even when I’ve long forgotten everything else, as I likely already have, take me to this city and I’ll remember the feeling: Floating through tight, carefree streets unrehearsed, my long black sundress ever so often catching the bike chain and my white, then unbroken hair said to remind Spanish men of golden women from other ages, their eyes gleaming and jutting back as I pass quickly—until I’m going the wrong way and they’re shouting but I’m laughing and Barcelona’s winking and I’m feeling…well, free.
Bikini (Shop in Barcelona)
Fringe Leather Sandals by Zara
Floral Kimono by Urban Outfitters
Black Open-back Crochet Maxi Dress by Social Apparel at Manhattan Mall