Barcelona in Review

Depicting a place, and with it a moment in time, is a delicate proposition.

A writer’s tendency is to romanticize, or deconstruct, or recalibrate. Writers – I use this term loosely – will forfeit life and limb to find a kernel of meaning in a bag labeled “meaningless kernels.”

For writers, there’s always “there” there.

That admission aside, I can’t imagine describing Barcelona as thereless. The city is an oversized aorta, pumping life in every direction. Vitality seeps from its sidewalks.

Barcelona absorbs you.

If only I could depict the sensation of walking through Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter at night, or sipping cava at sunset from Parc Guell, or swaying to the beats at Bogatell Beach. But any effort would be in vein; those sensations must be experienced first hand.

Those memories, and many others, are stored away in the hallways of my Barcelona.

My Barcelona is a vibrant playground painted in Gaudi. It is a Gothic maze, where stone-walled streets lead to hidden plazas and cavernous restaurants offer five-star meals. It is a city of overflowing sidewalks, where street vendors mingle with tapas served al fresco, and every path leads to a piazza.

My Barcelona is synonymous with the sea, beginning with the dawn which rises over the Mediterranean, and ending at dusk when the city is engulfed in brilliant beams of blue and gold light. It is the light of the sea.

My Barcelona does not sleep. It is a run at sunset. A glass of cava to welcome the first stars. Dinner at Origen 99.9 at midnight. All-night dancing along the boardwalk. And breakfast with new friends when the night gives way to morning.

My Barcelona is the unforgettable people who crossed my path. My friend Jorge, owner of the local vinoteca. The wonderful Italians, Alessandra and Michela. The sprightly owner of Xampany, Jose Maria, with his “Catedral de Cava." The accordion player at Catalunya Station serenading passersby with Pachelbel’s Canon. And last but certainly not least, my Barcelona will always be the infinitely beautiful Sofia.

These visions of Barcelona, and so many more, are aging in splendor in my inner hallway. I’m letting them rest for a short spell, alongside a bottle of cava and a slab of jamon iberico. Before long I will revisit them in person.

The more time I spend in Spain, the more invested I become. Spain has breadth, and personality, and diversity. In that sense it reminds me of the U.S. with its distinct regions and cities, each with their own rhythm and rhyme.

None more distinct than Barcelona.

Granted, some Spaniards will tell you that Barcelona is not really part of Spain. That Catalonia is more Europe, or separatist, than Spanish.

That’s a matter of opinion, but without a doubt, Barcelona and its people are a city unto their own.

I found the Catalonians to be an absolute delight. Energetic, kind, and that most treasured of qualities: young-at heart. They cherish their cuisine, and their heritage, and above all else their beloved futbol team, FC Barcelona.

I can’t imagine categorizing Barcelona in uniform terms. It felt equal parts Catalonia, Spain, and Europe to me. The city is a transient throughway leading visitors in every direction. A new life chapter waiting to be had.

Said another way: it’s a city which opens up in front of you.

Towards the end of my trip, I snuck away from Barcelona for a few days to visit the lush, hillsides of Cantabria in northern Spain with my friends Elena and Gabi. This beautiful, coastal area looks more like Scotland than the land of Quixote's windmills.

At one point Gabi and I were having a good-hearted conversation about social and economic classes in Spain and the U.S. -- a conversation which yielded a difference in opinion. Sensing that we would have to agree to disagree, I concluded by saying, “to each their own.”

My Spanish friends were not familiar with this American saying, so I explained the sentiment and then asked them for a Spanish equivalent. They could not come up with an exact match, but Gabi suggested an alternative which immediately won me over:

“Para gustos los colores.”

I love how those words – esas palabras – roll off the tongue. They reap of inclusion. They are a reminder that we live in a world of depth and diversity, character and color -- every shade of which is deserving of respect.

Sitting in my home in Chicago, three months removed from Barcelona, los colores de Espana are still vivid in my mind. I can see the brown checkerboard of Spain’s interior, a child of the ever-present sun. I can smell the greenery of the north. I can taste the salt that comes from the unending turquoise of the sea. And I can feel the red that is the blood of Spain pumping through me, taking me back to the Iberian Peninsula -- from Andalucia to Madrid, and onto Barcelona and Ibiza.

I went to Spain this summer to be with Sofia, and I left without her. But ours is a story which is only beginning. I can’t help but smile knowing as much.

And therein lies the grandeur in life: the moment in waiting. The future is unknown and for that we should all be thankful. How boring it would be -- this masquerade, our earthly dance – if we weren’t kept a tad in suspense.

Still, there are resolute lessons to be had while on the suspenseful road. From my time in Barcelona I can tell you this: to know a place is to search for it soul, and to offer yours in return. It’s a willingness to walk down the unlit street, to talk with the local grocer, to dance the night away under a Mediterranean moon.

That much I have learned. That, and one other certainty: I will return to Spain. I am thirsty for more Mediterranean moonlight.

The brilliant author Jonathan Safran Foer reminds us that, “you leave your mark on the world an inch at a time.” I couldn't agree more, and I'm left hoping that miles and miles of Spanish inches are in my foreground, still waiting to be discovered.

The only question that remains: when, and where, will you mark your next inch?