Love and Barcelona

This post is overdue, yet too worthwhile to omit. Two weeks ago, I met a girl named Camila at a Barcelona hostel. A group of us were preparing to leave for drinks, when a gorgeous girl with an exotic tan and flowing black locks passed in the other direction (presumably off to bed), but as any self-respecting young horny male would do, I introduced myself and invited her along.

Attraction can be such a mystifying emotion. Whether it's subtleties of expression, pheromones, or simply the unexplainable whim of the gods, something about a conversation that brims with mutual attraction transforms it from the formalities of introduction and lifts it into the realm of pleasure and flow that are the greatest stuff in the universe. A few drinks and Shisha pulls later, we broke from the crowd and found a salsa bar. A few drinks and dances later, we broke from the crowd and found a cozy spot on top of what I call "Olympic hill," with a beautiful view of Barcelona and the harbor, and...well, I can't make my entire life public, can I? Hmm...that implies sex doesn't it? That would be misleading. I'm a huge fan of sex, don't get me wrong, but this night's activities didn't happen to include it, which made the night no less special or emotionally strong.

We spend the next day touring around Barcelona, and (perhaps from the knowledge she was leaving later that day), I was pleasantly surprised to see the guard drop from both of us--all the games, disguises, walls we build, and protection mechanisms we manufacture...to mutually end this arms race in a truce negotiated without words brought simultaneous happiness and relief. It feels so good to genuinely feel affection for someone, and feel no apprehension about showing it. I don't know the exact definition of Love; perhaps no one does. I used to think it was something you said to your girlfriend after enough time has passed in your relationship that you're certain the confession won't be awkward. Perhaps this two-day romance didn't meet all the standard prerequisites, but upon reflection, the only reason I hesitate to call what I was feeling "love" is to avoid ridicule from potential skeptics. Fuck the skeptics.

Love lost perhaps, but as Mitch reminded me, making out with a hot Brazilian over a beautiful view of Barcelona should be on the list of 99 things to do before you die. 98 to go.