I left Barcelona alone, just as I came: free, limitless, and geared for adventure. As the plane took off, I rested my head against the window and looked down upon the city. Deep within the buildings and parks that were transforming into specks of grey and green, pieces of my heart were strewn upon the city like confetti: on La Rambla, in Parc Ciutadella, in Parc Guell, in my Residencia, in Barrio El Born, in the Barrio Gotic, at Milk, at Danzatoria Tibidabo, and the countless places revisited time and time again.
Years have flitted by since I left Barcelona, and I’m lucky enough to say that I’ve had many other meaningful new experiences in my life. Experiences that have appeared, impacted, and departed as dramatically as Barcelona. Pieces of my heart have been haphazardly left behind on the tree-lined streets of Seattle’s University Ave., drifting in puddles, loitering in front of record stores and pubs. A piece lingers in Tokyo, beneath a cherry tree in Inokashira park—between steaming bowls of ramen and in the midst of passersby on a chaotic subway platform at Shibuya station.
These strewn pieces are the recollections and memories of the friends, places, and experiences that have touched me. It’s been almost five years since I left Barcelona and my pieces there are buried deep—grounded like roots, from the thousands of feet walked over them. They form layers of time and memories … with pieces of others who have lived and left a place they loved.
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