It will haunt you.
Recently, when the lesson I’m teaching crashes and burns, or when Nemo (cutest snowstorm ever) dumps a foot of snow on everything, or when I’m babysitting a screaming toddler, or sometimes randomly when I’m driving or getting coffee, I’ll find myself thinking about Spain.
Or Greece, or Turkey, or Portugal–anywhere. But most of the time, it’s Spain.
I remember the first time I noticed it: It threw me off for a few seconds. I stopped what I was doing and concentrated on that memory. Then when it faded, I let out a big sigh.
What the hell was that?
I’ve been letting out those deep sighs all the time, like some bitter old soul.
When times get rough, it’s hard not to think back to when I was traveling. I miss that feeling of waking up and thinking, “So, what am I going to do today?”
On my third day in Spain this past summer, I took the metro to Paral·lel and grabbed the funicular to Montjuic. I spent a long time standing there looking at the city while listening to the sounds of firecrackers and fireworks going off. It was the Festival of Sant Joan, the celebration of the start of summer. It’s also called the “Nit del Foc,” or the Night of Fire. On the way to Barceloneta that night, you’ll maneuver around bonfires and jump away from firecrackers thrown in your path. Everyone gathers at the beach to drink and dance and watch the fireworks.
The sun hadn’t even gone down, but the city was still getting ready. I leaned on the railing and listened. The initial exhilarating feeling of finally being in Spain had worn off a bit, and was replaced with something calmer, more like contentment.
I stayed there for hours. I swear, the daylight lasts longer in Spain than it does here, and I lost track of time. I realized I had to head back to the hostel and get ready. I thought I’d head back to Montjuic in a few days, maybe get some studying done there, but for one reason or another I never went back.
AND NOW BACK TO WORK.