I was planning to write about more concrete facets I loved most about Barcelona. I’d probably do that in separate posts. For now, I want to talk about my own story of a dream come true.

I’m not sure when or how or why my fascination with Spain started. All I’m quite certain about is people start dreaming at one point in their lives and when they do, they dream big. Spain seemed big to me. I didn’t know when I was going to be able to step foot there and who I was going to live my dream with. It was an uncertain speck in my mind that I was only holding on to until such time that it could happen one way or another.

Then my mom told me two years ago that Barcelona was on our 2015 grand trip list. I was thrilled and didn’t mind waiting four years as long as it was on the line up. Then almost a year ago, she decided to just book the trip for this year. I can’t even describe how I reacted at that time. I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve giddily waiting for 12midnight to strike for gift-opening. And off I went, together with my mom and Kuya, to España.

So it happened.

Imagine loving heights and the thrill of it and sleeping at night and dreaming that you’re flying. When you wake up, you know for a fact it was exhilarating. But it was only a figment of your imagination and a product of your inexplicable subconscious. So when it translates to reality, it becomes as surreal as it was in your sleep and so much more. That was how Barcelona was to me.

Barcelona captivated me. It didn’t have Rome’s, in my opinion, most stunning collective works of architecture, nor Cannes’ luxurious and Beverly Hills-esque vibe, nor Paris’ romanticism, nor London’s iconic Abbey Road and Buckingham Palace.

What it had was a charm stemming from Mercat De La Boqueria’s colorful fruits and vegetables of all sorts, eggs plopped down on mini stacks of hay, occasional putrid smells from all types of ham and cheese there is, and a scurrying buzz from shoppers and diners in the area.

What it had was Gaudi’s magnificence emanating throughout the city with masterpieces, most especially the spectacle in progress that is La Sagrada Familia, that no picture nor flamboyant words could ever give justice to.

What it had were plazas where you can sit all day and admittedly have the time of your life, throwing breadcrumbs at pigeons, playing with huge bubbles, and taking photos of passing tourists. All this while waiting ‘til dawn strikes and you realize how beautiful of a backdrop the bluish lavender sky is to the old-fashioned lampposts.

What it had was Joy, a local we met outside Santa Maria del Mar who professed her wanting to get married in that Cathedral. And Juan, the owner of Pinotxo – one of the best tapas bars in the city, who incessantly whips up true local experiences for his guests. And Jorge, a cab driver who drives hands free and who I deem to be a frustrated tour guide.

What it had were other locals challenging my Spanish one and two skills, who made me feel that those six units in college were actually pre-requisites to my journey to Sitges. And I say this because the old lady who helped us with train transfers to the said beach didn’t speak English, although she was very eager to help. We made a bit of small talk albeit my struggle to continually roll my R’s and not knowing if my tenses were right. In that moment, I couldn’t care less about grammar.

I was given pensive moments of toasting a bottle of Beck’s in a quaint place called London Bar where older people usually hang out while envisioning Hemingway and Picasso proposing cheers to every painting or ceramic piece accomplished, or to a Nobel Prize in Literature won.

La Rambla, although quite touristy, amused me. It was refreshing to see vacationers, probably with varying seasonal vacations from where they live, having different sources of enjoyment. It was a wide street littered with various works of art; a road where you could very easily turn right or left and you’ll be led to narrow backstreets with graffiti on random gates or doors. Still, I found the graffiti beautiful.

In fact, throughout our stay, I found beauty in everything, even if I knew that they normally were not tied to an adjective synonymous to it. Such as the big rally we witnessed on a random day, the aged man asking for alms along Gran Via de les Corts, and rainfall on our second to the last day, save for the flipping of my umbrella.

For almost half of the trip, I was trying to surmise what other words I could use that would equate to beautiful. I stopped along the way when I came to terms with the fact that how I perceived the city cannot, in any way, translate to any set of words that I can dig up. Not even my own jargon. Even if I spend a lifetime typing away a novel about what I left in Barcelona and what part of Barcelona I’ll forever be taking with me. Different sensations and emotions will surface upon telling the story. It’ll mostly be comprised of different degrees and kinds of happiness. From stepping foot on the airport, to eating Churros at Cacao Sampaka and Fois Gras on Honey-glazed Apple and Bruschetta at La Flauta, to being awestruck at several centuries’ worth of art at MNAC, to seeing footballing folks in wigs at Sitges, to finding connections with the locals through awkward but sincere chuckles, to sipping cheap red wine in our apartment on a rainy night, to simply walking random alleys in the outskirts of the city.

I was in Barcelona for only five whole days, yet I felt deeply connected to it. There I was, a stranger in a place that oddly seemed highly familiar to me. Perhaps it was because I knew how to say ‘Soy Filipina’ and ‘¿De dónde eres?’ Perhaps it was because the Spanish era seemed like the most interesting topic of discussion in our History class. Or perhaps it was because I’ve encountered the place countless times in my imagination.

What Barcelona ultimately had were things that all combine to turn my dream into reality.

And so I left the city with a fervent promise of coming back to revive part of my reality and once more, live what now seems to me like a dream again.