I’m writing this in Barcelona’s airport, El Prat, which means I’m saying my final farewells to Spain. Saying goodbye to a place, when you’re unsure when or if you’ll return, is always a poignant thing, and I’m lamenting not only because it’s -3 degrees in Edinburgh (Celsius, not Fahrenheit, thank God,) but because Spain has some magic quality about it and I caught glimpses throughout my short trip. I saw it when I touched the Mediterranean for the first time, something I never thought I’d do in my entire life, running to its super-blue shore and then running from its giant waves. I saw it in the tiles of Parque Guelle, but also when I found a secluded corner near the top of the park, basking in the sun like a komodo dragon, eating olive oil rice cakes and listening to a Spanish guitarist. I saw it around a corner in the Gothic District, fluttering amongst the hanging laundry and Catalan flags. And then I saw it again in a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant, a splurge for a miser like myself, where I tried foods I’d never had before, tapas-style, like miso-pumpkin soup and mushroom croquettes and beet gnocchi and zucchini-tomato curry. I saw it with the green Monk Parakeets, which flew and ate and nested amongst regular pigeons in the streets and in the trees. I saw it on the first Sunday of the month, in other words, the free museum gauntlet, when I stumbled upon a Spanish garden where a view of Barcelona peaked through palm trees and tiny pink flowers. I did a lot of stumbling, actually, like when I accidentally found a handball tournament near Plaça d’Espanya and when I waltzed into a flamingo-dancing party by the shore at noon.
I read up on Spain before I left, because I don’t speak Spanish, let alone Catalan, and all of the travel blogs emphasized the “slow, slow, slow” pace of Spanish life, which half-led me to believe that Spaniards were some form of slug-person, which of course wasn’t true. After our dinners, we lingered at our tables, chatting and sipping and feeling no rush to leave. The busiest place I visited was La Sangrada Familia, which I reluctantly paid 14 Euros to enter. The cheap-o in me cried a pained cry as I forked over money to enter a church, but the inside was so breath-taking and strange and enormous and, most of all, mystical, that I fell in love with Antoni Gaudi along with the rest of the world. I thought the pillars were inspired by tendons and lean muscle fibers, but the informational posters noted they’re inspired by trees, which is admittedly less creepy, but no less awe-inspiring. In its tower, I admired the city, which was beautiful with its white buildings and red-tiled roofs, and I missed Pomona for a moment. Barcelona is obviously much different than Claremont (on a number of levels), but imagining its happy palms and its blooming December flowers in Edinburgh sent a shiver down my spine on their behalf. And although Pomona is “inspired by Spanish architecture” and all that, this real-deal stuff amazed me in a way no other architecture has, and had me snapping and snapping pictures upon pictures of what might be regular-old apartments to your average Barcelonian, but were special morsels for a young tourist like myself. I might have paid to see Gaudi’s best creations, but even Barcelona’s regular buildings were ethereal for me: pale-colored facades, designs and paintings on their faces, mini-gardens spilling from the balconies—it all seemed so peaceful and perfect, all of them in winding lines that led me to the sea or a lane adorned with a million Christmas lights or a quiet café.
We left the city and visited Montserrat, which is the most strangely beautiful mountain I’ve ever seen, with serrated white cliffs bubbling steeply above the Spanish countryside. We hiked to the top, which was freezing and windy, but still sunny, and seeped in the views as long as we could before we were too cold to stay any longer. At the train station below, the benches reclined so you could sit in awe of the lurching mountain and watch the little yellow cable cars run up and down and up and down.
I’m so glad I stayed in one place instead of speeding off to the next city and the next attraction—my extra days here were the most enjoyable, aimlessly wandering the tree-lined streets, finding a churro café tucked out of the way from the touristy drags, and meeting all the cats that crossed my path. (In one garden, we found a small colony of three adorable orange cats eating in their food bowl hidden under a flower bush.) Before I left, I sipped a fruit juice from the market and chewed on a crunchy baguette, lying in the sun and listening to children in the park speak Catalan. I inexplicably ran into a chef I met days before at La Boqueria as he strolled through, picking out his ingredients. I missed the train, and was filled with sadness at the thought of my Montserrat trip being cut short, but instead lounged on the bench and played 20-questions until the next one rolled in, and everything was okay and fine and beautiful and mesmerizing. Spain is a special place, and that’s that. I like to think everyone dreams of places to travel, and I have my own little list (Siberia, Japan, Bolivia…) but Spain has never been a place that I thought was particularly exceptional. I was so wrong!