(Day 4)

We had traveled to Barcelona with a motive, or motives I should say.

Andrea had spent most of the trip shopping. Each year, before New Year's Eve, she would travel somewhere new and buy gifts for all of her loved ones. She didn't believe in giving ordinary gifts, nor in giving them on the ordinary holidays. This coming year, each of her dearest friends and family would be wearing, eating, drinking, hearing, or viewing something from Catalonia.

Marielle was following a letter. Marielle's grandmother had died the past Spring and had left a small, though fortunate, inheritance to her granddaughter. In her will, the grandmother had written a letter to each of the named parties. In her letter to Marielle, Marielle's grandmother had written fondly of the travels she had taken in her youth. While Marielle's grandmother had grown up in France, she had always loved to travel outside of the country. Marielle had never left the United States, and she decided on Spain.

(Day 3)

It could be the same woman, but probably it is not. She is the same height and perhaps the same age. Her face is quite the same, but she has a different look, more relaxed. The woman in taupe had appeared formal, even with the apron on. This woman is in the open air, and her hair is blowing in the breeze. She is with a man, who might be her husband or her lover. Perhaps he is both. Both women could be the same woman, but probably they are not.

There is another man on the roof. A strange man, very tall and unusually colorful, and for no apparent reason. His shoulders are sloped, and it seems he must be holding his hands behind his back, thin as that is. Maybe he has something to hide. In any case, I get the feeling that he is not as transparent as he looks. At the same time, he is looking straight at me.

I move my eye to the right, farther and farther from this man and even beyond the woman. There is a city beyond this scene on the roof. It is a lovely day, and my hair is blowing in the breeze.

(Day 2)

My friend and I had been walking through the old town. We had eaten smoked meats and cheese and drank sparkling wine at a tapas restaurant that had felt like a cave, though more inviting. The tapas bar was low-lit, cool, earthen. It was hot outside, and sunny. My friend had gone shopping. I wanted to wander.

I had no idea where I was going and, having only just arrived the day before, every few strides felt like exploring. Along one of the streets I saw a beautiful door. Wood and wrought iron, old and intricate, it was designed to open in panels as well as all at once. I had hoped that while I was standing there someone would leave a glass jar of milk at the person's door (if indeed someone lived there) and ring the bell. The milk man would be gone by the time the hearer walked from the courtyard to the door, and, so, he or she (the hearer) would open one panel of the door first, and then no more, reaching an arm out for the milk.

As I was thinking this (and meanwhile attempting to look disinterested), the door actually opened, in its entirety. A woman, about fifty years old, walked out. I had turned around and could no longer feign my disinterest. The woman was wearing a stylish taupe-colored dress, brown leather heels, and a red and black embroidered apron. Her hair was done up in a chignon, and she was wearing earrings. She saw me standing there and asked, in Catalan, had I seen the milk man?

I wasn't sure how to answer. Before I had the chance to decide, the door had closed.

Seven Days in Barcelona (Day 1)

The arena is under construction. There is a dust from the equipment that moves pieces back and forth, digging under earth. The dust is like a sand, but not like the sand on the beaches of Barcelona. The arena of Barcelona is under construction.

The matador is waiting outside. She is tall, thin, white, and a woman. She wears fashionable jeans and a modern-day shirt. She lures men as much as she lures bulls. Her cape could be made of tulle or organza. It is too dressy to be worn. She lifts the translucent red fabric above her and the breeze moves it, tempting all who see. She is a siren, but she says nothing. The matador is waiting outside, but there is no bull. There is no bull because the arena of Barcelona is under construction.