On winking at Barcelona.

The previously mentioned train station in Madrid ended my bout of solitude for a while, because literally days before I left we decided that my mom would come and join me for my few days in Barcelona and my week in Paris, which I had literally been dreading being alone in for months now. Something about the idea of wandering through Parisian streets alone seemed like a particular shade of death I didn't really want to become acquainted with.

And so join me she did.

I've decided that there's something deliciously luxurious about visiting a city for the second time. I know this is a disgustingly unromantic thought to be coming from me, but I that think sometimes life is sort of a series of checklists. No matter what you're doing or where you are, there seems to be a sort of list, written or unwritten, of things you should see or do or experience while you're there. I think that there's something innately human about the idea of measuring how fully we've experienced something by checking items off.

All of that to say that there's something lovely about returning to somewhere previously mapped and charted in my mind. I stop feeling guilty for all of the things I'm NOT seeing, NOT doing, NOT resting my attention on. I can just drop all of the clutter, and wave hello.

And these few days were dedicated to waving hello to my old friend Gaudi.