It’s my last day in Barcelona. I never imagined being here this long. That changed when I met Petter, who let me sleep at his flat for two weeks and stayed up late talking to me during my premenstral breakdown and who hugged me tight when Laurent left me on the street. I have so much love for this kid, I can’t even begin to express it.
Seriously. I can’t wait to see the sarcastic, basketball-playing, Sweet-ish little shit again. He is wonderful.
I am having a rough day. I went back to Sagrada Familia this morning and prayed for the second time in a week. I’m not a God person, but I make exceptions.
I’ve learned that when it feels like the world is falling apart, it’s important to consider vulnerability factors in order to gain an understanding of what’s happening and why. So here are mine:
It took 26 hours to get to Barcelona. The Chicago storms led to a two-hour flight delay, which meant missing my connecting flight, which meant sleeping on a bench and walking in circles at the Dublin airport for 10 hours. Fortunately, I made a friend on the plane who compared airline chicken consumption to chewing on a condom. We stayed up all night and she babysat me while I slept on the bench, to the disdain of the occasional businessman.
While drinking coffee in the terminal, a woman with yellow teeth, an eyepatch, and hands like tree roots from rheumatoid arthritis approached us and sat down. She asked where we were going. I told her I was going to Spain and she said,
“I almost moved there in 1979, but my partner drowned beforehand. That’s why you don’t mix swimming and bourbon.”