Every new place I travel, I make a bucket
list specific to that place. It has
things that I want to see and do in that city (go to the Tate Modern in
London), foods I want to try (a ‘submarino’ in Buenos Aires), experiences I
want to have (climb the Eiffel Tower stairs on my last night in Paris), and
even personal goals (read a book in French while I lived Montreal). Inevitably, at the end of my trip, I find
myself with way more bucket list items than remaining days in that place.
When I first started traveling, I
tried to push myself to complete every. single. item. on that list before I
left. I spent my last few days in a
place hardcore touristing, ignoring friends, ignoring work, ignoring the
outside world, and feeling harried and rushed.
And I wondered why I never felt at peace about leaving.
So, in Barcelona, I tried to outsmart
myself. I scheduled everything out so I
could make sure I had time for everything.
But without the sense of urgency that an upcoming flight to another
continent provides, I found myself seriously undermotivated. Things came up, I took pijama days instead of
day trips, and I stayed out late with friends instead of getting up early to
head to that museum exhibit. I was in
Barcelona for 10 months. There was
PLENTY of time for me to do everything on my list, with a lot of room to
spare. Did I do it? Of course not.
To be honest, after a certain point, I just
stopped trying. Instead, I spent most of
my last week reliving some of the highlights of my Barcelona experience. I went to skate at the rink where I’d been
taking lessons for six months. I rode my
bike down Diagonal to the beach. I had
coffee with a big group of friends in the middle of the day. I worked in the mornings in the peace and
quiet and stability of routines I knew well.
I got a big salad from my favorite place and ate it on the secret
terrace behind Casa Batllo. I sat on my gorgeous terrace and watched the sun
set over Sagrada Familia and the sea and drank wine and looked up at the
stars. I went to lunch with friends and
finally went in the Mediterranean (in the middle of the night, and not even in
Barcelona). I said goodbye at my own
pace.
In the end, I left my list woefully
incomplete. I never made it to the
Hospital Sant Pau (a particularly heinous omission, since it was just a few
blocks from my apartment!), never saw Gaudi’s crypt, and never did take that
trip to Tarragona. I didn’t finish
reading La Catedral del Mar (only made it about halfway), and never even came
close to reading even a young adult book in Catalan. I’m okay with it, really. I guess I’ll just have to go back...
* * *
(This post was
written at the Oslo airport during a connection from BCN to JFK, after living
in Barcelona for 10 months.)
