fight or flight in barcelona

dear friends,

my first three hours in Barcelona were horrible, and in my three days there, I never quite recovered from it. within ten minutes of getting off the airport bus at Plaça d'Espanya, walking down the subway stairs to the ticket machines, I turned to find my bag unzipped, my wallet and headphones gone. I carried my luggage up and down the labyrinth of stairs, my heart pounding, looking for a policeman, for someone with kind eyes who could help me. the cleaning lady smiled but didn’t speak english. gangs of teenagers and tourists arrived and receded again in waves. the station felt illusive and haunted, like the inside of an empty wine cellar, or some tomb raiding video game, where you have to carry a torch, and fight trolls.

I saw a Chinese girl - barely twenty, in a white dress - surrounded by a throng of teenage boys carrying her suitcase down the stairs. she was prey. I was prey. the second time at the ticket machines, two men encircled me while a third reached beneath me to unzip my bag. what are you doing, I said. I felt fear and violence welling up within me, flight and fight like two warring impulses. they didn’t know that I had already been plucked. I walked behind them with my knuckles tight on my bags. I wanted to scream.

on the subway, I watched a woman lunge for a young man with her bare hands, like a tiger, screaming in Spanish, bloodthirsty. did he try to steal from her, too? her nails left red marks on his neck. her anger was like arson. never before have I seen a woman so enraged. she threw him across the seats. an older woman separated them. they both got off the train.

new people got on, and the violence in the air diffused. sort of. a young, blonde woman in a white bikini coverup walked on with white earbuds in. she sat down, pulled up her top. her eyes were bright, big, and blue, with the faraway expression of a woman on her way to the beach, to lay alone on the sand with a good book. I watched men eye her from all directions, looking and laughing - in that way in which men look and laugh about women, each in their own language.

barcelona: a city of full sun. the air was thick and carried the scent of the ocean. trees lined small streets and hung high with oranges, just out of reach. at the airbnb, I united with a close friend, and before my heart had stilled itself, my words incited her into an explosion. she abruptly left the room and I sat there, stunned. on the tiny balcony, I looked down below at the people wandering the pedestrian street, most of them tourists. there would be no quiet here, even at 3 am.

at 3 am, I put on a tight dress and danced tango with an older man who moved like a Spanish conquistador, always victorious. his valse was like magic. I felt safe, and free. powerful. like a woman. old Spanish ladies came up to him and remarked on the force of our connection.

I was so grateful for tango. both the dance, and the milonga scene. it was like a familiar game, adapted to each culture. so I played my part to get what I wanted: memorable dances and my dignity, reclaimed on the dance floor. here, at least, I was not clutching my body, in fear of violence. here, at least I could play.

on Sunday evening, my friend and I went to a bar in Gracia to see a flamenco show. American hostel tourists had already claimed all the chairs. an hour later, a young man in skinny jeans strummed a guitar, an older woman clapped dispiritedly, and a woman in a polka dotted dress danced. it was the kind of music and movement that you knew could have been beautiful, if only there was real passion, instead of theatre for tourists. flamenco, a dance of one burning flame, and three souls to stoke it.

earlier that afternoon, we passed a man in a black hat playing flamenco guitar in an empty corner plaza. he sat on shaded steps with his back to us, facing a peeling sandy building. we sat in bright sun and listened to him play one song, over and over again.

at 11 pm, we walked through a plaza filled with young people, sitting in small clusters on the floor, empty pizza boxes spread out between them. the air continuously buzzed in Spanish. it felt like a leisurely Sunday night ritual.

the truth is, in three days, I never did regain a feeling of safety that would allow me to experience this Spanish way of life. the most I did was to seek the ocean -- to lie down alone, on a tiny strip of grass past the Gothic quarters by the dockside, where cruise ships and boats crowded the waters.

I wanted ocean but not beach, and this was as close as I could get. African men lined the streets with blankets of shoes fashionably arranged, lounging leisurely in shade, as if on a solitary picnic, nearly napping. I laid there on the grass, my hand on my bag, inhaling the ocean air, nearly napping. instead of going home, I thought about returning to Paris.

I did go back to Paris. I had experiences in Paris that changed everything, experiences which could fill five essays. but right now I'll leave you here, in Barcelona, with a stranger I met on the bus.

while on the bus to the almost-ocean, I dropped one euro coin on the floor. the man next to me moved aside. be careful, he said, or you will lose all your money. I don’t have much now to lose, I said. we laughed. then he told me the story of how, at 7 am, he was nodding off in the subway when pickpocketers sliced his pant leg open with a blade. he grabbed them before they stole his wallet. that sounds scary, I said. yes, he said.

he smiled at me when I got off the bus. I carried that smile with me for hours. and now, six weeks later, I'm still carrying it.
.
.
.
.