It is 9:30 am on a Barceloneta Autumn morning. My boyfriend left the apartment for work over three hours ago, leaving me to awaken slowly while he stumbles around in the half-light of the morning. The curtains are opened slightly giving me a quarter view of the rose golden sunrise over the balcony and onto the Port Vell.
“It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there, not with those kind men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets. If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany’s, then I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name.” – Holly Golightly, Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961)
When on a trip, wherever you are, you will always come across the same belly dropping sadness that comes when you zip up your suitcase and give the room a last glance.
It’s 5am on a dark January morning and I am awoken by a familiar sound.
The last few years have been a, well, a lot. Back when I was my little 17 year old self I started a blog with no direction, niche or point other than being a space where I wanted to write and share things with others.