Marcella: Did you meet a poet on the plane yet? If he quotes Neruda, run.
Papá: Find the good anchovies. Bring home.
I smile without meaning to. Type quick answers.
Me: Safe. Will sleep. No poets yet. Anchovies noted.
Three dots blink, then vanish, then blink again.
Marcella: Proud of you. Remember fun is not illegal.
I tuck the phone away. The belt coughs up a stream of luggage. All the bags look like mine. Black, black, navy, a neon monstrosity with flamingos, another black. I lose track, snap back, stare harder. My eyes burn. My feet ache inside boots I wore for competence, not airportsprints.
Santiago’s words replay on a loop I didn’t authorize. Two nights. Can Cisa.
My case rolls by, half-hidden under a duffel. I lunge, grab the handle, wrestle the weight onto the ground with a grunt earning sympathy from a stranger. Once I clear customs, I wheel my bag toward the taxi stand in the cool morning, my hair lifting in a flirt of wind.
While I wait in line, I open maps on my phone. Type Can Cisa. A red pin blossoms and there it is…two doors from my rental.
A sign?
My laugh startles me. A single, disbelieving sound, quickly swallowed by the hustle and bustle of passengers trying to get to their destinations. Coincidence, I tell myself. Barcelona is dense. Streets knot together like veins. Proximity is relative on a phone map, the place could be farther than it looks.
Except none of this seems random. The universe is giggling at me and saying, “Rosa, go live your life for fuck’s sake.”
A taxi idles in front of me. The driver leans across the seat, flips a hand toward the trunk. “¿Dónde, guapa?”
“El Born, por favor.” I give the street, the number, the landmarks locals use. He nods, pullsinto the stream.
Concrete ramps give way to a sliver of highway. Industrial buildings blur into billboards, then flats with laundry strung from narrow balconies like prayers. Graffiti rises and falls in bright bursts. A man on a scooter weaves between lanes. The city unfurls ribbon by ribbon.
Breath loosens inside my ribs.
The driver whistles along to a song on the radio I don’t recognize. We slide into streets so narrow I’m afraid the buildings will swipe the sides of the car. The taxi turns twice, then once more, then stops. The building wears its years with a kind of swagger. A wooden door dark with history, carved stone lintel frowning over a knocker shaped like a lion’s mouth.
I pay, tip too much, haul my case from the trunk. The driver points up with his chin, a universal gesture I assume means “Good luck with those stairs, I’m not hauling your bag up there.” I grin, because yes, those stairs look like a dare.
One flight at a time. Colorful green and yellow tiles underfoot. A landing with a cracked mirror framed in gilt. Another flight. A window exposing a slice of sky so blue it borders on absurd. At the top, my rental. A room with tall windows and a view of a street already teeming with life.
From my window I spot a barista pulling shots across the way, a cyclist balancing a crate of oranges, and a woman shaking out a tablecloth from a balcony so close I could catch it.
Then I look left. There, within spitting distance, is a pale-green facade with black letters I know now without needing to look: Can Cisa.
I can’t help it. I laugh again, softer this time, a private sound loosening the knot in my chest by another millimeter.
I open my phone. My thumb hovers over messages I could send. Instead, I cross the room, unzip my case, pull out the worn T-shirt I sleep in when no one sees me. I toss it on the bed, then stop.
If I close my eyes, I can conjure up the heat of his hand hovering near my back at the jet bridge. Hear the low promise of meeting again. Feel the light press of his lips as I drifted off to sleep on the plane.
Two nights.
I swallow a grin I don’t know how to wear yet.
“Okay,” I tell the window. “I’m here. I’m gonna sleep until I wake up, for once.”
When I manage to crawl beneath the soft cotton sheets, the room smells of soap and orange peel leftin a bowl by the sink. Exhaustion edges in. I don’t fight it.
Right before I go under, I picture a pale-green door, a narrow bar crowded with bottles. Wine poured with care, not performance.
