Catalonian Kinetics / Barcelona, Figueras and Port Lligat by Ian Brockway

I.

On the plane, feelings of my mortality. I could not believe that I was going to Europe once more after Paris, just two years ago. A packed plane. I saw a couple very much in love. I thought this is how I am going to be with my girlfriend Amanda soon.

Nine hours. I tried to fall asleep but then I found it hard to breathe and got warm. Perhaps I have Sleep apnea, or some kind of allergy. Is this how I am going to die I thought? I focused on my breathing. In and out. I looked over at the happy couple. Their life was soaring and I felt locked in my body—-a hard compress of pain on my hip and tailbone, all because my body cannot bend like others do. I watched the midterm election results and kept track of each poll result in a trance.

Barcelona. The plane landed. Once in my own chair, my breath was easier. The Barcelona airport was very friendly. There was none of the apprehension that I found in the Paris airport. No foreboding uniforms or guns. People were fascinated by my happy service dog, an Aussie Doodle. The Customs Agent said “Enzo, welcome to Spain.”

A chauffeur picked us up. A tall vertical man who looked like a pencil with an easy smile. He spoke in suggestions like a hypnotist might: You just got in. You’re tired, jet lag. He looks to me while he’s talking but I also think he is talking to my Mom and my stepfather Petr.

“I am going to tell you many things to help you see my beautiful city. The subways are completely accessible. You are in a great area for wheelchairs.”

I ask him what about his favorite museum. “Picasso” he says almost instantly. He is surprised that I know of Joan Miro and Tapies. I pass a building, The Diagonal, that looks like a spaceship from the film Arrival. Big and phallic.

We are staying in a very clean apartment with white walls.

I have a black coffee and fall asleep. 3 hours pass. I get up and take a stroll with Mom and Petr. The whole day went like nothing.

We head to the sea. The sand is dark yellow. I think of Yves Tanguy, of Dali and their vast desert beaches but there is a young woman doing yoga and a model sitting several feet away with her back towards me in the act of exposing her top.

I smell the nostalgia of the sea. Melancholically talking me back to Seashore House Atlantic city, when I faced the Atlantic Ocean with a cast on my leg with no thought of Barcelona, Dali or Miro. We stop for a tapas meal of ham peppers and cheese. Everyone is out with good cheer in spite of the cool temperature. The meal goes down easy, a smile on my tongue.

On the way back, it is night but there are kids laughing and running on a small playground. Aside from the toddler chatter and the impish young voices, all is thick and silent, the heavy darkness at the beginning of a Twilight Zone episode. Are the little voices innocent or scheming? What will tomorrow bring?

[livemarket market_name="KONK Life LiveMarket" limit=3 category=“” show_signup=0 show_more=0]