August, 2006.
Barcelona.
Family vacation, using accumulated points for airfare and hotel.
Complimentary breakfasts included chocolate croissants. Buttery flakes melting on tongue, chased by the Sweet, ever-so-smooth, French chocolate.
Our late morning destination was Old Town Barcelona, the Gothic Quarter.
Large blocks of cobblestone line the narrow passages, buildings overhead offering shade, a cool respite from the summer heat bearing down at mid-day.
Cobblers. Cheese shops. A bookstore with Bibles in the window. Small cafes. Shops selling beads, necklaces and over-priced souvenirs, Tourists lingering.
Our pace, My pace, was quick. Rush, to see, to get to, to do. Next. Next. Next.
19 years later, I’m flipping through images on the internet, trying to retrace those steps and replay that one hour of Life in Old Town. I’m frustrated, not finding the right images. Memories fray on the edges and now at the center, old photographs left out in the mid-day sun.
And regrets, always hauling the weight of Regrets, why I had not savored those steps (and let my Family do so), rather than greedily gulping them to get to the Next.
It was yet another Meg Rosoff awakening: “I can tell you that you will awake someday to find that your life has rushed by at a speed at once impossible and cruel. The most intense moments will seem to have occurred only yesterday and nothing will have erased the pain and pleasure, the impossible intensity of love and its dog-leaping happiness…”
I often awaken to this same moment in Barcelona, on quiet Sunday mornings like this one. I’m walking Old Town. Slowly. I can hear my footsteps. Hear my breath. Feel the slight autumn breeze on my forearms. And I’m swamped with a yearning to replay the moment, and regain that intensity of that feeling.
I need to go back.
And do it right this time.
Photo: epepa.eu
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