Barcelona in all its Boldness

The scene is Moll de Marina Pier. Groups of teenagers linger, dressed almost identically, brazenly carrying sloshy beers as accessories. A young couple breaks up over dinner al fresco, hushed vociferations and tears trickling into paella. Reggaeton music trails down streets from taxi bikes as drunk passengers belt out the lyrics, a modern-day horse-drawn carriage. The next day at lunch, heedless waiters distribute our food to erroneous tables. We put a finger in the air to quell their quizzical looks. I become tipsy and chummy off of two glasses of Verdejo, emboldened to converse with artists about the nude watercolors they sell in Plaça Verónica. For dinner, we seek solace in an empty Italian place, its owner warmly ushering us into his restaurant-turned-home. I regret not asking his name, but choose to remember his eyes instead. Night strolls near the trash-laden beach, watching waves forcibly crash under a full moon, high tide thanks to her. Waiting in line two inches away from strangers for a cocktail bar, close enough to smell the olives on their breath. Relishing the smile and patience of my love from a distance while he waits and I wander. We enter and are brought drinks engulfed by smoke, illuminated with neon lights, adorned by bamboo straws. I marvel at the craft and then immediately abhor the extravagance. A bartender speaks broken English with Italian women. “Night of girls,” he comments with a wink. I smile at his attempt. We arrive home at midnight, trailing behind a father strolling home his infant in a baby carriage. Curfew is a social construct anyway, I think out loud.