After an arduous journey on the overnight train from Geneva I was excited to have finally arrived in Spain. En route to Barcelona, city with a rich and rebellious history. Home to artists and intellects, vagabonds and bohemians. City of wide majestic boulevards and dark Gothic alleyways. Of crumbling decay and architectural brilliance.
As we alighted the train to the platform, a chilly morning breeze greeted us and the first of the autumn leaves scuttled across the track. Then I felt it, something warm and wet landed on my head. WELCOME TO SPAIN it seemed to say.
They say it's a sign of good luck when a bird craps on your head. But it never feels that way at the time, and especially so after an all night journey on a crowded train.
A day or so later, in a hostel room in Barcelona, I jumped out of the shower and pulled on a tight white t-shirt. I checked my reflection in the mirror. Had my breasts grown? Well that certainly would have been a great fortune, perhaps the bird poop theory really was true after all.
I twisted and turned, this way and that, trying to get a better look at myself from different angles, admiring the large pert breasts that had seemingly appeared overnight. Perhaps I had just gained a little weight with all the bread and cheese on the backpacker menu.
Then it came to me. From far off in the distance, within that 19 year old consciousness of mine, something was trying to grab my attention. Leaping around waving a large bright flag. And like the Bull to the Toro all I could see was red.
Pregnant.
As I watched, the reflection of the girl in front of me changed in an instant. Just moments before she'd been bursting with the light and sparkle of a young woman brimming with the possibilities of her new found freedom.
Ashen face. Grey eyes. Panic in the pit of her stomach. What would happen now?
I hated Barcelona in that moment. For its dirt and noise and thieves. For delivering this devastating news. For providing the backdrop to what seemed like a great disaster. For reducing my world to just four dirty stained walls. For crushing my hopes and dreams.
I couldn't have known then, that only a few years later, that same city would compensate me for this burden, open its heart and soul, and provide for me a liberating, seminal experience upon my journey as a young women finding her way in the world.
And then much later still would yet again provide the backdrop to the beginning of possibly one of the most unsettling yet enlightening periods of my life.
I didn't have the baby. It wasn't the time for us.
I was however spellbound by that city. Sucked into her womb. Beguiled by her beauty and wisdom. Hypnotised by her charms. At the mercy of her whims.
I'd be surprised to meet anyone that has spent time in Barcelona and not been moved in some way by her spirit. Her enigmatic charm weaves tales for all that encounter her.
I know now the bird poop was indeed a welcome. For a part of my soul was rejoicing. A part of my soul had come home. Over the years, since that fateful morning on the train platform, I have had a grand love affair with Spain.
In her embrace, under her watchful eye, I grew up**.
(**A lot of my Spanish friends will be rolling off their chairs in fits of laughter reading that! Yeah I know I didn't behave like a grown up alot of the time, but you know what I mean!)
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