And I felt Barcelona under my feet.

I had been there before,

same place, same time,

at the base of an uphill trek,

alone,

on a dark, quiet, city street,

face painted,

balancing on black stilts.

I began like before:

eyes strong and vigilant,

face flat,

paces calculated, stable, and sure.

Internally shrinking at the thought

of the judging eyes of the few taxi drivers

as they approached and passed

regardless of whether they actually noticed.

And like before my feet were tired,

I was tired,

and each coming bench teased me.

But my pride was steadfast,

this pride which brought me here in the first place

which kept me from folding,

from resorting to the highest sign of weakness,

from taking a taxi.

But unlike before something was different,

I was different,

and this so-called pride stopped being so noble

and so, after a very short while

I defiantely took off my stilts,

held them in my right hand,

and started to run.

And I felt Barcelona under my feet.

With my gaze turned to only what was three steps ahead,

and through puddle-soaked, black stockings,

I gripped what I had grown to admire:

the paisley print, honeycomb hexagons,

the tiled off, symmetrical shamrocks,

the perfectly stamped small circles,

the zigzagging brickwork, and

the grainy blacktop pavement.

And I slowed to a walk.

Shame left and was replaced with a smile

as I looked around in amusement at

what had been so foreign,

what had grown to be so familiar, and

what would become a glossy memory,

sanded away of the grit that was felt so strongly at the time:

the blisters,

the tears,

the confusion,

the second-thoughts, and

the lonliness.

And when I made it outside my soon-to-be former home

I finally sat down on a bench

tired,

breathing,

stilts off,

mind clear,

triumphant.