New beginnings

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But like, properly new beginnings – finally…

I’ve just taken delivery of (almost all) the deposit for the old flat and handed back the keys. The daughter of my cantankerous, old landlady was, not too surprisingly just like her mother – on speed and a thirty a day Marlboro Red habit; with all the pent up anger of a five-foot-nothing volcano about to erupt. Or someone who needs a bloody good rodgering. You choose. Someone who says, “listen to me!” before every freakin’ sentence, talks over you and and gets all up in your grill – deserves a kicking. And by all the heavens above, I’m sure if my friend had not been there with me, we may have come to actual blows. So a huge thank you to him, for everything these last days.

The flat is immaculate, freshly painted, bleached to within an inch of its life and cared for, and everything works perfectly – as one would expect from someone of my years (and a lifetime of experiences with bad landlords in various cities). Let’s be real, the place has not experienced the kind of raucous house parties of my college days in London, because quite frankly, I can’t handle it. And I doubt very much, the property could either, so little in the way of maintenance had ever been done. But it has seen a liddle action, if ya know waddamean *does exaggerated winky face*, but nothing that might see broken water pipes, exposed electric cables, a smattering of lifeless bodies and a littering of pizza boxes and alcohol debris. And yet she saw fit to withhold two hundred fifty euros to cover outstanding electric and water bills for three weeks, usually €60 a month, and to pay the cleaner – €10 euros/hour for four hours. Haggled down to two hundred, I’m supposed to return to the old flat for the missing money later today, but you know what? We’re done, I’m done. I’m tired and I want to move on. I need to move on. Between navigating the end of a the old contract, the palaver of getting the new one and the end of my relationship (and ensuing month of messages, the final one last Friday being an epic list of things he didn’t like about me, just in case I wasn’t absolutely sure) – I’m really rather reluctant to continue this episode of my life. As you might imagine. And also……. I have a very low tolerance threshold for histrionics and unnecessary fecking drama and stories of bad tenants you’ve had in the other ten properties you rent (that you haven’t declared). Yeah, I know about that. It’s irrelevant to me and the state of the flat in Lioness street.

So keep the money, be happy, find joy, get a massage (or laid), it’s on me. I don’t care. Being chill, and not having to worry about any of that shit for at least another three years, fills my whole being with abject happiness. That’s it, we’re finished. All of us.

To Señora V, senior y junior, Señor C and the little flat behind Placa Reial, and all the fun I had there, I say –

…….. gracias y lo más importante, con todo de mi corazón – adiós.

Reasons why I don’t have kids #65

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Mothers, here’s a question for you:

Where do you find the time to wallow in self-pity, after a relationship breakdown, or indeed say, when suffering from a simple cold or hangover?

I wrote my last post yesterday about my recent relationship fail; approximately three weeks, four days, two hours and some seconds after it actually happened. (Unless you count this as the last one, then add twenty four hours to the above time total).

Crying but glamorous and with clothes falling off

It’s safe to say, I’ve got some mileage out of it. The day after it happened, I lay on the sofa. That’s it, that’s what I did. Sporadically crying and eating Pringles, while staring out through fat, blurry eyes at the mess of boxes and things lying around waiting to be packed and organized for the move.

I couldn’t do that with munchkins. It’s a self-indulgent luxury, feeling sorry for yourself, to which you must dedicate enormous amounts of time. It’s just not the same to quietly weep into the baked beans as you stir them on the hob, to accompany the fish fingers and mashed potato (Smash) – after you just received the dump text. Then clear the table, wash up, bathe and put to bed, read story and organize self. Then, to set the alarm for the school run the very next day. Who does that?? Why don’t you just call school and say, ‘Harriet won’t be in tomorrow because I’m really, really heartbroken.’? Ditto: cold/hangover/throwing self down metro steps….. these are serious issues, people. They require expulsion of emotions, usually through wracking sobs and maybe some howling, sleeping it off and a huge dose of reflection. All that? Well, that’s time consuming.

I admire how mothers suck it up, scoop up the kids and march on. Burying their own emotional needs until their dependents are safely out of ear shot, so as not to upset them or their routine – to release the sadness or hurt, that they’ve successfully hidden until that point; or fire up the kettle to prepare a hot water bottle and Lemsip and just lie down. I couldn’t do it. I have to let it out/be horizontal right there, right then and that’s not good for any child.

‘Why are you still on the sofa? I’m hungry.’

–waving in general direction of kitchen- ‘there’s Haribo in the fridge, and maybe the Tortilla chips are open. In fact, can you bring them through to mummy, please sweetheart? Oooh, and the wine. Thanks.’

And after that, how could I possibly be in a position in later life, to say to a bereft teen after their first heartbreak, or trying to get out of school for a cold, ‘pull yourself together!’?

And that is my ‘reasons why I don’t have kids’ #65.

Well, that was awkward

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So, for the first time in almost four weeks I just saw the man, to return some things he lent me for the move. I was not at all prepared for how uncomfortable I would feel; and if I’d been wearing trainers, it’s quite possible I might have broken some kind of land speed record…… in the manner of Thrust SSC. Not because I hate him, nor because I feel ‘spiteful or angry’ towards him, (his words in the text he sent in response to my message of apology for my manner. Although he did concede these imaginary emotions were justified), but because my feelings for him were more profound than I had obviously realised. I was not, however, surprised to receive his interpretation of my sharp exit. It’s always (in the almost one year together) been incredible to me how he sees the rest of the world as ‘angry’, difficult’ or ‘complicated’. It’s his default setting, the first words out of his mouth. Yet he is none of these things. Apparently people are not capable of other, softer emotions. I quite literally did not know how to speak to him. I was tongue tied. I had no words……

I am disappointed, beyond words, that it didn’t work. Because for me it was not ‘sporadically ok’, it was great. I’m disappointed too that to justify his decision he chooses to forget and/or ignore this. (Or maybe it was just shit for him, the entire year). However, my head is full of fab memories, his words and actions and my phone is full of a year of messages of love and photos of us and times we shared. Little hints at an annus horribilis. I am angry with myself, yes – for being so stupid as to think this relationship was different. To think that someone close to fifty would be certain about what they want from a relationship. I’m deeply saddened that that is quite literally it – he’s not part of my life anymore, and I will never know about how he is or what he’s doing or how he’s progressing. That is one of the saddest things about important people who pass through your life for a short time. Actually, it’s the saddest thing about all people who pass through. Except probably I’ll hear on the grapevine that he’s happily married, in three years time, because he’s studied at the Anne PANK Emotional Finishing School, and graduated with the next woman in his life. With honours. Because that’s what usually happens. Natch. And the barrio of Sant Antoni is smaaaalllll……

And I’m confused by fucking everything – that just three weeks before we broke up, we were having a passionate weekend in the Cerdanya and I sent my friend in the UK a message saying that we were experiencing a second wave of falling in love. How could I get it so wrong? Was I living in an alternate universe relationship? I’m not a stupid woman (say nothing). The mind boggles.

And what’s pretty brutal, is that I’ve realised this time round that I want the fucking fairytale, and that annoys the holy crap out of me. Because I’m the one who is pragmatic, I’m realistic, I know that shit ain’t real. I’m good on my own, but if I’m with someone who’s special – then I want it to work-the-hell-out! Fuck. Me! Where’s the bloody frustration font??!

Pragmatic, realistic – or so I led myself to believe. Just this once I’d like to hear, ‘I’m sorry, I made a mistake, I can’t live without you.’ And that makes my skin crawl. I detest that I feel that way.

So fuck you too, Mr Disney.

So, along with his electric screwdriver (goddam it, I’m going to miss that. It was all kinds of loaded-pistol-shaped freaking awesomeness!) and the luggage he let me use – I returned an unopened bottle of vintage cava we were keeping to celebrate our first anniversary: and a ring that he gifted me before the summer. I have no use for such sentimentalities now, or rather, I don’t want them in my new house – as yet devoid of memories. Maybe I’ll keep it that way……… Due to its significance, I would never wear the ring again in my life, so why have it? And tempted as I was to drink all the cava, I finally couldn’t bring myself to open it.

Cutlery organiser

And so, I have just taken delivery of some shelves for the kitchen and a cutlery organiser, so that’ll keep me busy and happy this evening. Tidy drawers, tidy mind………… Or something.

There it is. I have no need to speak to him, I have no need to see him. We’re done.

The end.

-final credits roll-

The joy of doing nothing

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So. Sunday.

I’ve spent the best part of today horizontal, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Even a teeny, tiny bit. I’ve had to fight *really hard against the urge to do anything today. For ten days I’ve worked my butt off to get organised in the new place and get the old place straight, in the vain hope that I’ll get my deposit back at the end of the month. Yeah, let’s see how that goes…..

So today, after popping a couple of Dormidina last night after the cinema, I woke at seven thirty, looked at the clock (and my Instagram likes), turned over and went back to sleep until ten. Shuffled to the kitchen, flicked on the kettle and continued shuffling to the lounge. Because I can shuffle around this flat, rather than spinning three sixty, perpetually. Spinning and spinning in the ‘hall’ of the Gotic flat. Kitchen, lounge, bedroom, toilet, kitchen, lounge, bedroom, toilet, kitchen……

Cuppa and sausage sandwich in hand, I took up residence on the sofa and hunkered down for the day. I struggled against the urge to hang anything, hammer, clean, brush or adjust. I watched a bit of political news, Strictly and interspersed naps in between bingeing the last three episodes of Stranger Things 2. I decided I should probably take the bins down, just about an hour ago, and pop to the corner shop for supplies. Haribo, natch. But please rest assured, I’m back now in my house trousers and under the furry throw. Not a metaphor.

(I imagine two post-war neighbours chatting over the fence:

N1. ‘ere, you ‘eard about Sheila? Frank says she’s under the furry throw… ‘

N2. ‘Noooooo! Geraway wi’ ya…..’ )

La Fira Barcelona-sundown

Humans are weird and feel guilty about the strangest things, taking a little time out shouldn’t be one of them. Look, there are a myriad other things to worry about: hurling your empty booze bottles in the general bin one by one, to avoid any embarrassing telltale clanking, calling the selfying teenage boy on the metro a bellend inside your head, and standing still on the wrong side of the travelator on the way to the platform. Lying down for a day isn’t a crime, and putting your jeans on and throwing a jumper over the tee-shirt you slept in to pop out for a breath of fresh air, isn’t either. I haven’t even got a hangover to blame! Returning within ten minutes because it’s nippy and you didn’t bother with a jacket, is OK too. You went outside, and that’s what counts.

Happy as a pig in proverbial……… In my view, vertical is massively overrated.

*like, a little bit

A world of firsts

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So, I’ve been in my new place a week now, and I’ve charted the excitement of all of the news – by annoyingly posting about everything I’ve done for the first time at the new address. I’m irritating the shit out of myself, so I am certain it’s driving y’all absolutely bloody crazy.

First meal cooked in the oven in a new Pyrex dish, first Campari and soda on my little balcony, wrapped up against the chill, at the table and chairs my friend bought me as a housewarming for the last place, lit with a lamp gifted to me by my nieces. The first Sunday in pjs, watching crap telly. First sofa with hidden storage space in the chaise – are you shittin‘ me?! The first afternoon nap – P.R.I.O.R.I.T.I.E.S. First IKEA furniture put together, the first time hearing neighbours having sex (aaahhh, city living), first shower without the hot water running out, first visit to the local Chinese bazaar – God I love those places, first breakfast in bed; also Sunday, btw. First alone time…..errrherrrmm *does winky elbow thing here*. First pictures mounted. First number two in a bathroom with mood lighting. I mean really, they thought of quite literally everything when they refurbished this building.

The first morning of work was stressful due to the usual ‘brain wakes you every hour on the hour in case your alarm fails even though it’s never failed at any time in the recent past’ new place situation. But, happily I’ve discovered that I don’t need to wake a whole TWENTY minutes earlier, just a mere ten. *does endless cartwheels of joy*………. I love my bed. Especially the new mattress. Jesus Christ, why did no-one tell me what pleasures would abound from spending more than the bare minimum on a pointy, stabby bargain basement affair?? You bunch of utter bastards.

These firsts of pure joy have been a tiring, blessing in disguise that I’ve wholeheartedly embraced, to avoid thinking too much about the mountain of other firsts that have passed these last two weeks.

Empty

Tonight was the first Wednesday night class that we haven’t followed with a couple of drinks across the road. I’d completely forgotten until I got there and my stomach lurched at the address of my final class of the day. It jarred me……. there are so many things that have been masked by the move. Thanks be to all the gods. Hallelujah!! The first day not texting a good morning message, or a goodnight. The first Friday without an early afternoon finish and an escape to a nice beachside restaurant for a romantic boozy lunch. First time in a long time without a, ‘…….love you…..‘. Amazing how quickly you become used to that. And how quickly you forget the last time you let it into your life, and the inevitable pain connected with it. I imagine that’s a bit like childbirth. The first Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, etc. etc. etc. The missed first dinner together in my new place, missed first anniversary celebration…… we were just nine days shy.

Anyway…….There will be a few more firsts to bore the living Hell outta ya – and me – before I’m done (but really, it’s all so exciting!) be warned, but I won’t be talking about the *says conspiratorially out of corner of mouth* the ‘other’ ones: of that you can be sure. There are too many more good things to focus on: dinner party, family and friends visiting, Christmas celebration, evil hangover under a throw on the sofa with an endless supply of Lays crisps and Nestea and Ben and Jerry’s. First supermarket online delivery arrival, sick day with a hot-water bottle and a hot toddy (kind of comforting)…….. good things, you say? It’s all relative.

I’m in

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….. and all but the very last vestiges of my life in the Gotic, have been brushed and bleached from the memory of number one Carrer de Lleona. After the big move last Tuesday, I have popped back and forth throughout the week to collect the remnants of almost three years of my first really independent steps, here in Barcelona. I remember as if it were yesterday, the feeling of abject terror taking the plunge and signing that contract on my own, after almost four years of sharing with someone who was to become one of my closest friends. How lucky I’ve been.

I hate and love change in equal measures. I hate the process of packing up and physically moving with such passion that I would rather, genuinely, get married and divorced twenty more times. And knowing what you do, you can understand the depth of that emotion. I dislike intensely working out a new routine, because routine is what keeps me sane. A place for everything, and everything in its place. And if it’s not, well……………. *BOOM*! It’s the reason why I will quite literally beast myself for a week to get everything moved, built, hung, constructed, organised and in order – to achieve the sensation that I have always been in the new place and nothing is out of the ordinary, or place. Right now as I write, I am bloody knackered. Physically and emotionally. That might have more to do with the fact that my relationship recently ended, I’m almost forty-seven, five floors of stairs are a bitch twice a day, and my knees hurt – but actually that I haven’t stopped until now to write this. Collecting another twenty kilos (más o menos) of stuff from the old place in the good ol’ IKEA bag (what did we do before), dismantling an old blind, putting up curtain poles, hanging curtains, and emptying the last boxes of stuff in the new place. I despise not knowing where everything is, it gives me the jitters. Yesterday, I bumped into my elderly neighbour at the old place, as I was chucking stuff out. We have had one minor disagreement, when he suggested that water was magic and bent around his flat from the top floor, to flood my toilet. But apart from that, he’s relished waiting in the dark mornings of winter to scare the living bejeezus out of me as I left for work, falling about laughing when I jumped out of my skin, (yeah, totes bantz Señor), we’ve chatted in the stairwell about all kinds of bollocks, and wished each other happy holidays when appropriate. And when I told him yesterday that I was leaving, disappointment flashed across his face so tangibly, that when I went back into the old place, I sat down on the sofa and broke my heart. Change is shit.

Home

Then there’s the excitement of the new. Discovering the nooks and crannies of your new neighbourhood, *finding the bars, hidden shops, getting to know the locals (a bit, not too much like: natch). Rearranging furniture, hanging pictures, making it your own. I love this new place so much that I keep walking up and down the little corridor, saying inside my brain “this is mine!” (And the voices, “this is yours“), like I just won the lottery and moved into a Cotswold country pile next to Kate Moss.

I know that I’m going to be very happy here, despite the mixed emotions right now, and it’s very probable that I’ll never move ever again in all of my remaining days. Ever. Like never, ever, ever. EVER. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off out to buy a cat to complete the ‘dies alone and has face eaten off by domestic animal’ story. I considered a fish tank, but I just don’t think a goldfish will cut it.

*please note the first thing on the list was: bars.

Autumn

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I’ve always loved this time of year the most: the smells, the colours, the pleasure of digging out your knitwear and boots.  Less so here, as it’s still twenty-three degrees – but you get the idea.  It’s always felt like a new leaf turning over, more so than Spring for me.  I like the idea of death.  You go, my inner Emo!  *high fives self*. Go on!  Bury the shit outta that old crap – stuff you don’t need, habits, clothes, things you don’t use.  I usually have a big clear out and massively enjoy nesting a little bit, ready for the onset of winter.  Which is a very romantic way of saying, ‘doesn’t do any lady maintenance and lives in trackies for foreseeable future’.

Autumn


This year it coincides, coincidentally, with the signing of a contract for a new flat here in Barcelona.  Bye bye, ladies of the night, drug dealers and five am revellers.  As much as I love you all, and I really do, it’s time for us to part ways.  Bye bye human poo on my doorstep at seven am, six month stalker nightmare and the heady aroma of pungent piss at the height of summer – (all year round actually, but the heat doesn’t help).  As for you lot,  you can all fuck all the way off.  To Hell, and back.

Hello leafy lane, dog park and children’s play area….. I’ll be the weirdo, silently hanging around by the dogs. 

Also, I’ve been cleared out. Of my partner’s life, a mere two weeks before we reached our first year together.  I was so ridiculously excited about this relationship, such good feelings from the outset.  So kind, sweet, tactile, handsome, generous and funny…….. too good to be true, one might say.  And also about arriving at this milestone, finally proving to myself that I’m not a complete fuck-up, I can hold down a relationship and am capable of the whole love thing (resists making self puke).  But nope.  Don’t be bloody ridiculous PANK, How long have you known you?  I piddy da FOO who believes in love!!!  The best plan has always been the ‘be single plan’, it’s easier to be single.  It’s always been easier to be single.  What have I told you about sticking to the plan, Anne?

(Make ’em laugh Annie, that’s the way to cope. Get a laugh to soften the blow.  Truth be told, I’m heartbroken, I honestly thought that this one had real potential to be something special, to go the distance; and I’m sad that he’s not sharing this with me.)

So anyways…… moving swiftly on, as I do at the mere whiff of heartfelt emotions – Autumn: all the deaths of everything, literally.  Home, things, shit seventies furniture, relationship.  There were things ‘he didn’t like’, but would not explain. Mysterious things, things that I will never know. Things. Stuff. Stuff and things with no name. So I have something super concrete to work with when I go to the shrink next week.  Thanks love. 

AP:  “So apparently I have things people don’t like, which I’d like to talk about.”

Shrink: “Great.  Tell me about them.”

AP:  “I would if I knew, but they must remain a mystery. I think I might be on a mission quest that I’m not actually aware of.”

Shrink: “Hhhhmmmm. Ok.”

AP:  “What can I do to improve these ‘things’?”

Shrink: “Don’t do the ‘things‘. Or, be better at the ‘things‘?  Honestly, I’m not quite sure.”

AP: “Great! Thanks Doc.”

Shrink: “Excellent work Anne! See you in two weeks.”

I’ve been a nervous wreck. Shaking, painfully thirsty, distracted, I’ve lost three kilos and can’t eat – (silver lining.  Always a silver lining).  Thank you BreakUpDiet ©AnnePANK 2017, seriously, I should be your brand ambassador.  

And then, there was the flat.  Until I got the contract signed and those keys in my hot little hand, I couldn’t rest….. (and how strange it was to go to the office with my brand new ex and pretend to still be a couple, to seal the deal.  So I must thank him for that.  Our names are there together for the next three years, how romantic.  And desperately sad). I was literally counting down the seconds. And now, as Shakespeare once said – “my leaf will truly turneth over”. Or something.  So, thank all the Gods for the little, new flat with no memories or history, in a nice part of town, full of light…… and on the fifth floor with no lift. 

So, buns of steel too; daily cardio without the gym subscription?!  What’s not to absolutely love about that?!

*Something old, something new

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I’ve fallen in love with my therapist!  It was inevitable (so I’ve been led to believe), but I didn’t expect it to happen quite so quickly. I’ve had one session……. Okay, so I’m not really in love. But you know, I could be. 

Shrink


All things considered (all in fact being one thing, and that one thing being the difficult relationship with seventeen, and the uncomfortable consequences of that) – I made the decision to attend therapy.  Primarily with the view of leading by example, showing willing to find solutions for the sticky situation and illustrating that it is not in fact, scary.  It’s basically just talking about yourself, and what’s not to absolutely love about that?!  Someone needed to take the bull by the horns and if that person was me then so be it.  I loved it!  

I could have spoken for hours and hours as once the floodgates were open, there was no closing those babies.  Unfortunately time and money restricts me from actually moving in and living there for two whole months. I would totally consider that, as I now wonder why I’ve never embarked on this course of action before.   

Anyway, now I’ve discovered it, there’s no looking back.  But I advance with a modicum of caution…… Why?  Well, because someone very close to me, who themselves travelled down the counselling path, said to me, “be prepared to discover that the only course of action you might uncover, is to extract yourself from the situation that prompted you to go to counselling in the first place.  It’s not always the rosie outcome you originally hoped for.”

And with those words still ringing in my ears, I take my first steps to investigating what lies beneath…… but not in the same way as Michele Pfeiffer.  Nope. The only ghosts here, are those of dead relationships. Natch. 

*Something old – me

Something new – therapy

Summer comes and goes…

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August Christmas Cake

…….and I can’t believe there’s already Christmas food on sale in Selfridges. August flew by in a flurry of visitors, who came and went in shifts, that allowed me to perform a one day change-over in the manner of a top flight hotel.  A top flight hotel that resides in possibly the pissiest street in Barcelona, the smell of which greets you through the gaping gaps in the ancient balcony doors each morning, at the height of humidity season. But at least the fridge was full and there was an endless flow of cava.  Talking of humidity, I wrestled, as I do every year, with a frizzy head and eventually went for the chop to free myself of the burden of four inches of super absorbent dead ends – which resulted in a serious Crystal Tips situation.  Backfire.

On a serious note, my siblings and I narrowly escaped the horrific attack on Las Ramblas, and were holed up in a church in Placa del Pi for more than four hours, while the chaos ensued. To all the emergency services and the staff of Santa Maria del Pi I say – thank you, thank you, thank you. You were absolutely wonderful……. 

I got a new tattoo, which is representative of the fact that I still don’t have a clue what I’m doing or where I’m going.  Because sometimes you just have to have those things indelibly inked upon your person.  You know?  

The Wolesley

After all the visitors had left, I spent a week in Blighty, going to a wedding in Liverpool, visiting family and friends in my small town in North Wales and popping down to London for some quality time with a friend.  A whirlwind of photo expo at the Natural History Museum, lunch at the Wolesley with Ian McShane (well not exactly with, more like in the vicinity of), champers in Selfridges, a touch of nostalgia at my old Uni, and a smash and grab in Diptyque.  

Before all this happened, the man and I nearly broke-up, twice, and then we spent the best part of  five weeks apart, because I’m still hated by seventeen just enough to not be included in any family holiday plans.  It’s been an intense few weeks.  And you’ll be delighted to hear, that I’m still hated – just as much – after more than a month PANK-free.  *sigh*, nothing if not consistent.  One hour in her presence last Friday was enough to send her head spinning and projectile vomiting the likes of which hasn’t been seen since……. well you know; that scene.  I think I heard her hiss when I walked in.

So, the nights closing in and the drop in temperature signalling an imminent Autumn, are very welcome.  It’s my favourite time of year, and feels very much like a time of death and renewal – not to sound too dramatic, natch. 

Let’s see what happens in the months before Christmas arrives – which is a mere one hundred and one days away. 

You’re welcome. 

Love not hate

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I don’t know how I really feel after the events of the last week.  After taking my brother and sister to the airport early this morning, before the hustle and bustle of a regular day in Placa Reial or on las Ramblas began, I took a walk down one of the most famous streets in the world, to take a moment alone to look at the tributes. 

It was the first time I cried.  Amongst the thousands of messages of hope, peace and love, was a note for a young man called Luca, written by a friend one presumes, that read, “sorry I couldn’t keep you alive, I did everythink I could“, it broke my heart and I sobbed.  

We overslept from a siesta that afternoon, by five minutes. Had we left the house to catch the metro at Liceu at the time we’d planned, we would have been on Las Ramblas when the shocking events were unfolding. As it happened, (luck, fate, chance), our way was blocked at the junction with Calle Ferran, we took the parallel side street, de n’Aroles to exit left higher up at Placa de la Boqueria, when we realized that something very serious was happening.  Police/Mossos/Rifles/chaos and confusion. We made our way as quickly and as calmly as possible in the opposite direction into Placeta del Pi, where all shops and restaurants were pulling down shutters and a member of staff from the church was shouting to take cover.  We needed no more convincing than a large group of young people running from the direction of Las Ramblas, to do as he said.  

Tributes to those who lost their lives or were injured


And there we stayed for more than four hours, locked safely inside the church with armed police and vehicles blocking the three street entrances into the small square. Between fifty and sixty of us, a mixture of locals, tourists and church staff with a regular update fed from police to staff and relayed in four languages from the pulpit to the people inside the church – who were slowly realising the severity of what was unfolding outside.  We were eerily calm.  An older gentleman overcome by the heat and the stress, was cared for in the garden at the back of the basilica by staff and his companion, an American gentleman went to collect bottled water from a shop within the protected square, for everyone, half of a group of girls who had been separated in the confusion, arrived and were allowed entry into the church to be reunited – and broke down in each other’s arms. We chatted together and mostly we were all glued to our phones for news updates and letting loved ones know we were safe.

We arrived home way past nine, having finally been given the all clear to return as quickly as possible to homes or hotels by the police.

We attended the gathering in Placa Catalunya the next day, to pay our respects…….. and then in their remaining days in Barcelona, I took my siblings to see Roman ruins, have paella at the beach, visit Feste Major de Gracia and Sagrada Famila – because it felt like the right thing to do.  But also, it felt strange. Especially in Gracia, which as a rule is packed so tightly with visitors, that it can take thirty minutes to walk down a decorated street, only fifty metres long. We wandered around freely, through the ghost town with a smattering of others.

Those were the things we had planned and those were the things we were going to do.  Despite a slight feeling of unease at the sound of the police helicopter overhead and sirens, every day after the tragedy until they left, and on my part, a nagging sense of guilt – we went about our days as normally as possible.  As it appears, did most everyone else in those places (except Gracia), that we visited.  In their tens of thousands, it seemed.

Defiance??  Bravery??

I don’t know, but by carrying on with life, every one of those people on the streets of Barcelona after the seventeenth of August 2017, every one of those people who helped the injured, all of the emergency services and ordinary folk, were showing those who would do us harm – that we will not be  cowed by fear, that we will not be beaten by violence and hatred. That we will never forget but we will ultimately overcome.

I love you Barcelona, for your free spirit, your love and your diversity – and incredible strength. 

T’estimo molt, no tenim por. 

AP xxx