A not long time ago, when I was reading the new Murakami book, Killing Commendatore, I've met an expression I liked. Well, meeting an expression would be closely similar to meeting an Idea or a Metaphor, in an embodied form that is, and thus in close vicinity to the subject of the book itself. Nevertheless, before I make things sound even more complicated, the expression I've met is The wisp of a cloud.

Now how is that related to my holiday? Time flies or flows, God knows, and things that seem tangible and present become indiscernible in the labyrinth of memory. It is not that I forgot, although Ab. made e detailed plan of our journey. He has the gift to recall each day with its minute details and if days were a line of well-trained and obedient soldiers. To me, the days are wisps of clouds, and what I recall is fulgurant sensations, smells, vegetal details, shadows, and feelings.

I remember Barcelona as a city of long walks, zig-zag crossing, elegant buildings like some aristocrats inviting us to dinner, big shopping windows, large lanes, in an intricate geometry of cubes whose corners you had to elude. I guess walking is Barcelona is following a bee-line.

I also remember the chills of the spring evenings, the warm, protective hand of Ab., the tasty Colombian food, the napkins, flowers, shells, La Horta and parks, the light that entered like through a sieve in the iconic cathedral, the awe of discovering that Gaudi's inspiration is vegetal (with hives and sunflowers, and seeds and Ab's favorite: lavender). A living world overflowing in mosaic pieces like gleams of sun. This was the second time my world and Ab. collided in a sentimental Big Bang. And I hope we will create more and more galaxies further on in other dormant cities that await us to explore them.