🌸 salted serenade

First time here? This is the third track from “buttahbasted”, my written album summer series. Wondering what a written album is? Check out this introduction here. Or you can start by reading the first story, “seduced in condesa”. Hope you enjoy this 🌝.

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🌸 salted serenade 

"You HAVE to move here. It's the best city in the world."

I don't remember who said these words to me.

Was it the Italian brunette with the flower tattoo on her neck? The one who promised to teach me the Spanish lyrics of La Fama by Rosalia, only to fizzle into thin air. Or was it the city itself? Each inch of Her forty square miles finding ways to tickle me delusional. Forgive my naïvety, I'd never been courted by a city before. 

My twenty-five days in Barcelona felt like a coordinated serenade. My lover left little gems in precise places, knowing I needed them. Like the delicious late-night lasagne I found while escaping a bone-dry happy hour. I never saw it again. No one had ever heard of the place. It popped up for the ruse.

I have complained for years that San Francisco's cafes close too early. Where am I supposed to go at 4pm when I want to keep working? When I don't want to go home or work from a bar? Hearing my faint cry, Barcelona sprang warm coffeeshops that closed at 10pm my way. What is love, if not heeding one's deepest needs? 

One afternoon, I joined a highly-rated Airbnb tour of the old town. Aidan, our Irish tour guide, took us from Arc de Triomf, through tiny medieval streets, stopping for tapas, coffee, and pictures. He told the story of a city that had been burned down many times, from the Siege of 1714 to the Spanish Civil War. Each time, the people rose from the ashes of burned dreams and scorched hope to rebuild the town one stone and one handful of earth at a time. Truth or myth? Does it matter? Why let the truth interfere with the arc of romance?

Later that week, I caught a glimpse of paradise when I watched my beloved FC Barcelona play live. The same fingers that wrote the story you're reading now trembled with nervous electricity before the first whistle went. I didn't know whether to dance or scream or pull my braids out. 

The match felt like a music festival. Brothers in arms pulsated up and down in sync with beating drums. Seasoned ultras coordinated us in song. Neighbors from across the world danced and cheered, knowing we'd never see each other again. Grown men let off high-pitched shrieks and repeated "Ole's" at feats of audacious skill. When Raphinha scored the first goal on our end, the stadium erupted into a frenzy of unadulterated ecstasy.

The forty-five-minute walk home after we beat Sevilla 3-0 did not disappoint. Even though it was nearly midnight, the city rocked with serious rhythm. Thirsty worshippers went to the temple for a taste of the divine cup and were duly fed. When I stopped at McDonald's, a few fans jumped inside, and we sang for another five or ten minutes. I promise you, I have no idea what words I sang.

At this point, I became a willing pawn in the city's seduction. Off the pitch, Barcelona flung colorful characters my way to hammer home the ruse—Swedish Steve, who invited me to summer in Stockholm. The white Tanzanian chef, who worked excruciating hours six days a week, got hammered every seventh day and drunkenly demanded everyone remember she was African. Luisa, the poor girl who had just moved to the city for her Masters, got ditched by her friend at the bar (for a man), so I became the stand-in EU diplomat mediating between one sulking Portuguese and a culpable Italian. 

One night, I went dancing with friends I made through a homie back home. Picture this, four of us in our late twenties, one Nigerian, an American, and an Egyptian-Hungarian couple dancing in a beach bar and loving life. When I told them I was leaving the city soon, they outright refused. I laughed, but they didn't find it funny. We settled on a compromise: I'd stay another week and then plan my permanent move six months later.

Barcelona let me look at other cities on one condition—I had to keep my wedding ring on at all times. Girona fluttered long eyelashes my way. Forty minutes away by train, I could dip over for a day trip and be back for dinner. I'll be honest, I considered it. Girona has those gorgeous cathedrals and grand baths where Game of Thrones was filmed. But how would I explain the foreign stench on me? Negotiating my month-long Andalucian adventure with stops in Seville, Malaga, and Cordoba already took a lot of pitching and cajoling. 

You might be wondering how I got so whipped. Last year, during my sabbatical, I visited thirteen different towns including Bali and Bangkok. How did this one city have such a hold on me?

Well, have you had a crema catalana? It's basically a Spanish crème brûlée. My reaction to the city's seduction mirrors the experience of eating one. On my second day in Barcelona, a shop attendant screamed at me in Catalan for not understanding "bolsa" meant "bag". So I was a little resistant like the thin, hard shell of the dessert. But once I poked beyond that, the riches oozed all over—the sweet custard of the city's culture and charm gripped me. 

How could Montjuic Park turn me, someone who has never meditated two days in a row into a believer in the practice? I climbed that hill at least ten times, and on each summit, I felt this unfathomable serenity seep through me. Isn't that prayer? 

On the sloping streets of Poble Sec, I weaved through kids playing football with reckless abandon. That chorus—alternating thuds of balls bouncing on cobblestones and joyous, cheerful screams—was the soundtrack of my childhood. It took me back to happier, simpler times. 

Barcelona is set up for people to be people. When I cross the street in certain American cities, I feel the steaming wrath of the nearest driver waiting impatiently in the crosswalk, expecting me to rush-walk, as if my mere existence annoys them. I'm clearly wasting their time. But in the Eixample district in Barcelona, the avenues are wiiiiide, lined with trees, and pedestrians are prioritized. The city's octagonal grid was designed by the guy who literally wrote the book on modern urban planning, Ildefons Cerdà. So is it a surprise the city is so livable and walkable?

Maybe I should have expected this cultural alignment. Sobremesa, the Spanish desire for slow, longwinded conversations over the dinner table, and wish to digest and enjoy life speaks to me. My penchant for sun is as strong as my disdain for fog. My mother will tell you my infection with football fever is three decades long. Perhaps I've always been an honorary Spaniard.

When I reminisce about my time in the city, I feel the sweet rush of joy knowing I lived those days tussling with the salty realization those moments are doomed to memory. I remember my futile attempts to capture those moments on my phone. Those sad one-dimensional snippets don't begin to tell half the story. 

Every city has a frequency that resonates with certain souls. New York pulses with ambition and hustle. Paris holds court for the romantics. I imagine Rio buzzes with festivity. 

Barcelona is an ancient city dancing to a modern tune. Everywhere you go, you feel the juxtapositions. Shimmy your shoulders in Plaça Reial, a large square where you can groove to reggaeton at Jamboree bar, twenty feet from lampposts designed by Gaudi. Visit buzzing new clothing stores retailing out of medieval-looking buildings. Meander through the narrow Gothic streets of El Born until they lead you to the wide avenues of Eixample. Don't choose between hills or the sea, visit both, maybe even on the same day. 

It's been fifteen months since the salted serenade started, and even though we remain separated by five thousand miles, I'm counting the days till our next dance.

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