I feel like, so far, every post I’ve made about Barcelona has involved some kind of happy accident. Whoops, we just happened to ride up this hill during a beautiful sunset; whoops, we went on an angry walk and just happened to wind up in this awesome park that helped me refocus my entire life. You’re probably thinking, “yeah, whatever, who in Barcelona is paying you to promote it as the city of miracles?” Well, I’ll tell you: no one, but I’m all ears if you know anyone who would.
I’d like to paint a picture for you all in which I am always a carefree traveler, my possessions light on my back and my feet light on the ground, dashing across this fair world of ours with nary a worry or obstacle in my way. Huzzah!
In a reality that will surprise approximately no one, that’s not always how it goes.
For instance, the day we visited the Parc de la Ciutadella in Barcelona, my day did not start off on the right foot. It’s hard to say why, exactly. My parents wanted to visit the Picasso Museum; but while I generally maintain at least the pretense of enjoying cultural activities, I wasn’t so keen on the massive line. So Simon and I split off on our own, and that’s when things went…awry.
I’m fairly certain we didn’t plan on visiting Montjuïc at sunset.
After all, Simon and I had just arrived in the northern hemisphere for the first time in two years via three planes and more than thirty hours of traveling. We didn’t even know what season we were in, let alone what time the sun would set.
Also, I’m not great at planning. I eat when I’m hungry, I sleep when I’m tired, and I follow my boyfriend around because I can’t read a map properly. I’m a bit skeptical about my ability to coordinate solar movements with the timetables of not one, not two, but three modes of transportation. (As the saying goes: it is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.)