BARCELONA

I gazed at this balcony till the image was imprinted on my eyelids. I could imagine myself living there, in a room with wooden floors where I would walk barefoot between the bed and an unfinished painting on an easel. I would wake late, sleep late, and spend goodly amounts of time cooking pasta before taking walks to the park. I would water the plants everyday and look out at the world -gazing back down at a small figure in the street who stands looking up, daydreaming about my apartment. 

That was my alternate life, the potential life-of-Zoe, if I lived in Barcelona. 

Barcelona is like this: daydreamy and surreal. It is the inverse of Paris, which is a shell of sorts - a kind of hollowed-out-church, a whisp of former glory that is now filled with tourists clicking their camera shutters, instead of praying worshippers. Conversely, Barcelona is a living organism - moving, and effervescent. 

There is so much to see in Barcelona, so much to take-in...

Trees laden with oranges, which you must try and pick by climbing a lamp-post, only to discover that they are the very bitter male version of the plant.

Friendly shop-owners to talk to about the recent football game.

Beer to drink, while seated at a sidewalk cafe. 

The bohemian feel of the old quarters, where young hipsters lounge around on scooters making-out underneath the laundry hanging from the balconies above.

The sea, which you must dip your feet into, even though it is freezing in spring.

The humidity of the air, giving each breath a weighty substance.

Red parrots and zippy-scooter drivers that you have to watch out for.

The incredible organic architectural gems, which deserve your undivided, worshipful attention. 

The juices, sold in rainbow-rows of colour at La Boqueria. And, if you are Oliver, you must drink at least five of these a day. 

The skateboarders, the bikers and the rollerbladers, all of them passing between large crowds of people gathered outside a small bar on the waterfront where everyone and their mother is watching the latest football game.

The parks of the city, with grassy areas that are perfect for midday siestas.

Spanish guitar players to listen to, and notes to lose yourself in, over a glass of wine.

The street art and the museum art - which you must peruse standing up, on a day when you don't sit down at all.

Festivities to watch, at any time of the year: sculpted giants on parade; or midnight folk-dancing performed by women with gnarled hands clasped together.

The offbeat clubs, where one can hear live cuban or reggae or metal music, depending on the night. 

19 HOURS

A TALE OF TWO TRAVELERS

Let it be noted that the most interesting tales are not the result of good times filled with food and cheer, but they are those that speak of hardships and great deeds. 

Let it also be noted that a traveler's life is not an easy one, despite the many images that crowd our visions today: of sun and sand and margaritas, and perfect outfits with matching hats. No, a traveler's life is just as influenced by the laws of entropy as the rest of life: a flux of order and chaos, beautiful memories, and those that we can learn from. The trick is to embrace the beauty within the chaos...

When we arrived in Genova, we beelined for the airport. Although our flight would not depart for another four hours, we had learnt the hard way: it does not hurt to be too early! We whiled away the time by chatting and checking out the food in the tiny shop tucked away in the corner... Hmmm. Bread again. At one point, an alarming message flashed onto the departures board: our flight was cancelled! We googled it. Yup. It looked very cancelled. I then approached the lady at the front desk, and asked why this was so, but she seemed perplexed and, after consulting her colleagues, reassured me that the flight would go ahead. Looking up, the message on the board had disappeared.

Then, an hour before the flight was due to depart, an announcement was heard, telling passengers that the flight to Barcelona was, indeed, cancelled, due to French air-strikes. Outrage! Italian outrage! People were up in arms, and I could not get anywhere near the front desk. There was talk of reimbursement, but it was clear from the empty departures board that no other option would be given today. We would just have to find our own way to Barcelona.

So, I grabbed Oliver by the arm, and hauled him out the door lickety-split, no-time-to-lose. The sun was setting fast, and I was not about to miss Barcelona to lounge around in the airport for the next few days. French strikes are notoriously long-winded affairs. Instead, we wound up at the train station, and after twenty minutes of pleading, I had bought us a phenomenally-roundabout-19-hour-train-journey to Barcelona. 

By this point, we were quite used to getting the travel hiccups, and neither Oliver or I felt in the least bit stressed by the whole ordeal. In fact, our brains had become so addled and reformed that the prospect of a 19 hour train journey seemed like a great idea; an unforeseen adventure, if you will. 

We ate dinner, watched the departures board, and giggled a little as the floor-cleaner proceeded to spread dirty-water over all the floors.

There was a bit of improvisational midnight dancing, while waiting for the train doors to open. The nearby snack stall was still open at this ungodly hour, and was blasting Italian tunes.

Then there was the sleeping - from 1am till 5am. This was done in a random train station. We shared our sleeping space with many other people - refugee families and vagabonds, and we did not look too out-of-place, with our grubby clothes. Some crackers and milk were shared around the station.

As Ollie took his turn to sleep, I watched the bags. Every so often I would glance at him, he always looks like a cherub when he is sleeping. Sometimes he drools - it's very cute, I promise. 

I drew in my notebook to pass the time: waves, giraffes, spiders and ducks.

We brushed our teeth in Marseilles. 

We breakfasted in Spain.

And then, as planned, 19 hours and five train connections later, we arrived in Barcelona, having traveled through Italy, France and Spain in just one day.

SEA URCHINS

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URCHIN

noun /ˈərCHən/

1. A mischievous young child, especially one who is raggedly dressed.

2. A spiny sea-creature.

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1. We showered very little while traveling, but swam as often as we could: in crystalline lakes of ice-melt, and in muddy, milky blue ponds where the water ran off from the vineyards, and we swam a lot in the ocean, where the waters stung my nose like salt-and-vinegar chips. So far, we had avoided the plagues of jellyfish, but I still felt a jangling tingle in my nerve-endings moments before jumping into virgin waters. There is something so thrilling about swimming in the wild.

The best spots are those secluded ones, where rock walls hem in the sides, and where the waters are calm, revealing their depth. Oliver discovered one such place on the coast of the Cinque Terre, and we spent an afternoon leaping from the rocks, aiming for the deepest section of the sea below. 

2. Clambering out of the ocean, grasping for handholds between slippery rocks and seaweed, my fingers found something prickly. I pulled back with a twinge, but the damage had been done: three small spines rested in the soft bed of my thumb-pad. 

That night, my thumb had a heartbeat. 

I googled 'sea-urchin,' and searched for any type of advice pertaining to my injury. I found stories of Thai remedies that involve smacking large spines into the skin before dissolving them with vinegar. I felt a little better about my predicament after that, and resolved to rub antibiotic ointment on my thumb every ten minutes.

It took three days to settle. 

“Nature goes her own way, and all that to us seems an exception is really according to order.”

— GOETHE