It was back in early 2014 when I kicked off my relationship with Barcelona. Those were the days I could club-hop down at the Port Olympic until the sun rose over La Barceloneta. Opium to Shoko, swing by Carpe Diem back to Opium. Even if the pre-drinks began at Eclipse at W Hotel on the other end of the beach, I’d always turn the lights on at Opium with my girlfriend and numerous new friends from the local Alumni, usually a bevy of young and intoxicated American girls we’d accumulate in our presence throughout the night.
Then I arrived several months later with a different crowd, passive smoking at one of the 100 or so legal Cannabis Clubs with posers who were only pretending to be my friends. I would always convince myself the mojitos the random riff raff on the beach were selling were actually mojitos for 5€ yet they never came close. Barcelona is also where I was introduced to the world of Tinder for the first time in my life, what a city to begin such a skanky affair with a strategic swipe right. It wasn’t until last year, on my third visit when I actually properly immersed myself into the culture and history of the city and calmed myself down like a proper adult, even feeding the homeless on a Sunday evening with a local charity.
“You know, sometimes in your worst nightmare your dreams can come true…” A man dressed in my weakness, a suit, tells me as I’m overlooking the dance floor and podium dancers in unnecessarily ridiculous outfits. A glass of champagne arrives in my hand from a table filled with bottles of Dom Perignon. And this is only the first night. Read full post here.
I enjoyed the rhythm of the city, the character no matter where you turned to take in the air as you came to terms with the fact you were in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world. It was impossible not to love Barcelona. If I ever came across someone who didn’t love Barcelona, I’d immediately excuse them from my life.
It’s the only city I’ve been to in Spain, I couldn’t comprehend visiting Madrid, I’d feel like I was cheating on my love with another Spanish lover. I may not look like it but I am a faithful woman.
As I overlook the city from the 33rd floor, I picture myself potentially calling La Barceloneta home. In a questionable moment of self assurance, my phone begins to ring. My dad must be in sync with my plans, “Hi darling, how are you?”
“I’m well dad, you?”
“Yeah not too bad. You know, I think it’s time you come back to Sydney.”
“What for?” I ask.
“Why not? To find a normal job, have a normal life…”
“Dad, I need to tell you something,” I hear a grunt of displeasure, he’s aware my news is always something that furthers me from the family unit. “I’m looking at properties to buy in Barcelona. I’m never coming back to live in Sydney, we broke up a long time ago.”
If there’s anything worse than cheating on a love,
it’s going back to an old one.
“Barcelona, she’s no longer my medicine,
she’s my paradise away from two homes.”