We decide to use the Metro. It’ll be an experience, we hope, we say. And we get more determined in believing this as we got more and more lost and knackered.
I remembered that the journey would be like going from Hatton Cross to Piccadilly Circus so as not to be too expectant. But the place was gorgeous. There were many blocks of flats – it was 1:30pm, therefore siesta time and all the blinds were up. Each block of flats had the same sheet and the same colour – either all green, or red, sometimes blue with the odd pink or yellow sheet. The immediate sense of identity made me feel as if I didn’t stand out a mile. Also, with being right by Barcelona’s biggest tourist pull I could sit on the pedestrian square and people watch all day. Write some stories.
I’m in bed and I can hear the rumble of the city. I’ve been a fat pig and ate too much, but I’ll pay for it later. There are strange bangs and puffs of smoke from windows sometimes, the odd firework. All types work and dine here. There’s even the odd white owl gliding by the ginormous! red moon. I’ve never seen one before, really. Rats scuttle by the lake searching for nuts, but I don’t mind them here. I feel so released and content despite living on the top (5th) floor with a dodgy lift and a staircase that is crippling (as I found after shopping the supermarche).
No, I feel at home here, in this city as it doesn’t feel completely dissimilar. And its friendly and political and an architectural supermodel – who’s a little strange. But I love that in any city, anything and anybody. It even has a sublime ice cream shop called Gaudi’s next door. I could live here forever.