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.
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.