Bakersfield.com

By: Heather Ijames

       I am at the point in my life where I neither feel young nor old. I know I have opponents in the field who say I should still very much consider myself young. 

But enough whipper snappers have referred to me as ma’am, and thus, I have accepted my fate as being older than the young even if I’m not older than the old. At any rate, it recently occurred to me my mind feels quite like a rubber band. Sometimes it stretches to great lengths, and other times it contracts and I ask complete strangers what the date is several times over in the course of a single day. Today it is stretching. Stretching back to a time which seems so very long ago, yet it has not even been ten years. However, it was before marriage and before children. So as you can see, it was a very, very long time ago. 

     I was preparing to sign up for the summer semester following my second year of law school when I had come across a flyer in the library. It advertised a semester abroad in one of several countries over the summer break. My attention was truly peaked because I had already done a semester abroad in Florence, Italy during my sophomore year in college. Oh, to go to Europe again. I had to at least make an inquiry. It turned out that taking two summer classes at the University of San Diego during the summer would cost double the amount of taking three summer classes abroad. That cost included my tuition, renting an apartment, the flight over there, spending money, and still paying the rent on my apartment in La Jolla since I did not want to lose it for the next school year. Half the cost and an experience of a lifetime? It was a fortuitous thing I already had a passport. 

     I chose Barcelona, Spain for reasons I am still not sure of. I suppose I cannot escape the fact that the Mediterranean calls out for me…it is in my bloodline. I remember telling my father, both while I was there and once I arrived back home, I did not care for Barcelona. My reasons were juvenile. I suppose I wanted to see something quaint, a picture which had manifested itself from a young girl’s expectations. Barcelona was big, bustling, and dirty. That is what I told him. 

     But now I can see that those opinions were formed in the journey, not the destination. The journey from my apartment to the cathedral was dismal but I adored the cathedral. The journey from the university to the park was frightening but I adored the park. Maybe it is collective blocking, but I hardly remember the journeying anymore. I simply see the destinations. And oh, what destinations they were.

     To feel the pulse of Barcelona is to taste it with your eyes. I can hardly envision standing on the gold and course sand of the Costa Brava without tasting the salty air of the Mediterranean in my mouth. I can’t remember an outdoor café without tasting olive oil and freshly crushed tomatoes making a natural symphony of flavor in my mouth. And Sangria, oh Sangria…. Every time I make it in the comfort of my own home I remember the dark pit of a tavern where my lips were first introduced to its amazing flavor; how I still taste the wet wood my hand carved goblet was made from as it held the dark and sweet substance I am still so fond of. 

     Humor me as I retell my experiences of Barcelona in these chronicles. Part one was my introduction. Part two will be my apartment in the ghetto.