Leap Day / Barcelona
in which you can take it or leave it
I landed in Barcelona mid-afternoon on Leap Day, ready for an adventure. My lavender Away bag was one of the first I spotted at baggage claim, which I took as a great sign, fresh scuff marks included. When I’m alone at an airport I like to channel what I consider a combination of my mother Rexanna and Sally Albright’s walking styles — shoulders back, chin tilted up slightly — as if to say, “do not fuck with me; I know exactly where I’m going and what I’m doing at every moment!”
Come to think of it, I always walk like that when I’m alone.
Nobody has to know I rarely have a clue.
It was with that same attitude that a short while later, freshly showered and wearing a new outfit, that I sauntered out of my hotel and into the Barcelona crowds near Plaça de Catalunya. I was mostly killing time, waiting for my friend Beth — who I was meeting in Barcelona — to finish with work and be back in the area.
The walk felt great; it was sunny and not chilly at all; I was taking in the city views. The sheer amount of people on the streets felt more overwhelming than I anticipated, though. It took me back to a lifetime ago, when I was a teenager first visiting downtown Chicago, crossing the street on Michigan Avenue. As I often do, I thought about my parents: Dad would hate this area. Mom would …
I couldn’t finish that thought. I didn’t know, and I never would. Suddenly I felt on the verge of tears. I walked into an H&M that looked like a museum, for no reason at all other than to have something to do. The first thing I saw was a dress I’d bought specifically for this trip, and I laughed, loudly, and turned around and got the fuck out of there.
Back on the streets, my confidence had returned, and I turned up my air pods to listen to Brittany Howard, because I’m always listening to Brittany Howard right now, and started walking in the direction of the tapas spot Beth had suggested we meet for drinks.
As usual, I was struck by all the other women walking around: 20somethings in pairs and trios, all dressed nearly matching and talking over each other, some in English, some in Spanish; an older woman, slowly pushing a folding shopping cart and talking over herself; a fast-walking and fast-talking woman holding her phone in front of her face with one hand and a cigarette in another. A barefaced beauty with skin so dewy I nearly gasped in awe, immediately followed by a woman — also beautiful — but so heavily made up and contoured I pictured her in front of her bathroom mirror, slowly peeling it all off at the end of the day. Under the mask I suspected another barefaced dewy beauty lived, desperate to get out. I’m partial to the natural beauties but I appreciate the contoured ones’ commitment to their craft.
I assume there were also men in Barcelona that afternoon, but I didn’t notice. Nothing interesting to report. I had already circled Plaça de Catalunya a few times as I didn’t want to wander too far from where I'd meet Beth. It dawned on me that I was a grownup, and could get a table for us. I found the restaurant and pulled my phone out with the pretense of sharing this plan — and saw she was suggesting to her friend Meghan and me to meet at her hotel instead. Thanks to the blessings of an international data plan and google maps, I was not at all fazed by this change, so started typing the new address in and — splat.
I yelped and jumped, losing any modicum of cool I might have had in one second.
A pigeon had just taken a rather large shit all over me.
Poop was on my hand, my phone screen, my wrist, my jacket … and I couldn’t tell, but I was certain it was in my hair. I moved in front of the restaurant window and peered into it like a mirror, shaking my hair maniacally. A man was sitting inside, staring directly at me, but like nothing was happening. I laughed and shrugged; he blinked back, slowly. Turns out, there are men in Barcelona.
On the WhatsApp thread with Beth and Meghan, I texted: “I’ll walk back that way! Also a pigeon just pooped on me” — to which Meghan immediately replied, “That’s good luck!” so I knew we’d get along.
As with most things in life, I learned from Judy Blume (circa Starring Sally J Freedman as Herself) that a bird pooping on you was good luck:
At the same moment, a bird, flying overhead, plopped on Sally’s arm. “Look at this!” she said to Andrea.
“Euwww …” Andrea held her nose. “How disgusting!”
“That’s how much you know …”
Sally ran the rest of the way home. When she got there she raced up the stairs, kicked open the door, tossed her package on the floor and shouted, “Look at this … a bird made on me … look …” She held out her arm for Douglas and Mom and Ma Fanny to see.
Ma Fanny clapped her hands together. “Good luck for a year!” she said, hugging Sally. “And it couldn’t happen to a better person.”
“It’s not just superstition … is it?” Sally asked.
“No more than knock on wood or bad things always happen in threes,” Douglas said, sarcastically.
“Good luck for a year,” Ma Fanny repeated. “You can take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it!”
Halfway to Beth’s hotel, I passed another fabulous-looking woman, who was looking at me appraisingly. I felt great; was she admiring my new outfit? I looked down at myself as I turned a corner.
I had missed more pigeon poop, running down my chest, all the way to the top of my new pants.
I laughed again.
It was Leap Day, I was in Barcelona, and I was about to sit on a rooftop and watch the sunset with my dear friend and her dear friend.
I’ll take it.
After this nice day of yours, I imagined myself walking in the streets of Barcelona. «I'll take it».