Milk, on the other hand, did not serve Coors Light, but the sticky floors seemed to prevail no matter the watering hole or corner of the world. There were too many clubs and bars in Barcelona to ever visit them all, but with the help of eager friends and alcoholic-fuel, I made an enthusiastic attempt. We celebrated nightly in the form of midnight tapas and countless bottles of wine which usually led to exuberant yet blurry nights at discos, and wandering the cobblestone streets of the Barrio Gotic for hours. Some nights were spent at posh nightclubs like Danzatoria Tibidabo, a beautifully converted triple floor mansion, or at Otto zutz, a discotheque where Catalonians and foreigners grinded in synch on two floors of thumping music. Random nights were spent with my friends Alex and Dwight at gay bars watching elaborate drag performances. There were many nights of midnight dinners, drinking euro beers in Plaza Reial, and bar hopping around La Rambla.
Patrick, Cameron, and I perched on some uncomfortably modern bar stools in the corner of Milk. We faced a sparse white wall and I could feel the body heat of passersby as they brushed my back, spilling the occasional beer on my shoes. The bar got increasingly crowded behind us and I took a slow swig of my lukewarm vodka naranja. It burned my throat, slowly coating it with the sweet taste of orange soda. We started to reminisce about our experiences in Barcelona, and how our lives had been intertwined for such a short but sweet instant. I reminded Patrick of the bizarre incident where we almost got mugged on La Rambla, and laughed about the tragic yet comical (in hindsight) time Cameron got belligerantly intoxicated, passed out on the streets of the Barrio Gotic, and of course had all his belongings stolen from under him, even the belt from his pants. It was ridiculous how much of our lives in Barcelona had been spent in excess—partying, drinking, eating, shopping, staying up until daybreak. But there were many sans-vodka memories too like bonding with my Spanish dorm mates and new friends while practicing my jumbled Spanish at every opportune (or inopportune) moment. Other nights were spent on midnight walks with friends to La Catedral in the Barrio Gotic—lit up and glowing, rich with its history radiating throughout its arches and mosaics of stained glass windows. And, Gaudi’s famous Church, La Sagrada Familia, was a path we retraced night after night—a spectacle only more magnificent with the glow of the moon playing on its soft and ragged curves.
Patrick sipped his Jack Daniels and coke from a straw, paused for contemplation, and said, “I’m leaving my heart in Plaza George Orwell.” The liquor had cast its emotional spell, and I could hear the distress in his voice. It didn’t seem odd to me that someone could love a place and the experience it gave them so much that their heart could remain behind in a random Spanish plaza. I realized within Patrick’s Jack-infused sentiments, that I always leave a little piece of me behind when I leave a place and an experience that has truly touched me.
After many weeks of teary goodbyes, and a lot of self-rumination, I hesitantly got on a plane back home to California.
