Returning to Barcelona changed my life, again.
Hot crustaceans and mouthfuls of second-hand smoke set the tone.
London, 2019.
A large drop of IPA landed on my t-shirt darkening the black fabric even further. The cold sensation, activating my nervous system, returned me to the moment like lightning.
"So, what do you do?" reverberated around my head for the third time that evening as I brushed the beer foam off my shirt.
Instinctively flinching at the question, the drop of liquid saving me the public shame of visibly recoiling.
I had found myself at another designer networking event in London. Tucked into an old bridge arch, the bar was particularly unwelcoming despite the quirky name. Cold dank air failed to circulate the day's sweat emanating from the cast of office drones in attendance. Instead clinging to the open brickwork like a slick paste you'd only notice after you took your hand away.
The perfect ambience to give mega-corporate presentations a magical hint of squatter's DIY.
Small cliques were held together on the patio by whichever agency appeared on their bank statement each month. Rolled-up blue jean boys with no socks and tiny beanies were not mixing well with girlboss heels and blazer jackets. Pretentious disdain for the "others" was palpable, and your paycheque size obvious.
No one seemed to care, yet everyone seemed to care - a little too much.
I've never understood why people choose to hang out with their co-workers after work.
I was a ghost in this world, a free-lancer bound to no one, but I continued to play the game regardless. Their knife-like eyes not deterring me from jutting into a conversation unannounced. Confidently slamming my beer down with theirs on a decorative whiskey barrel, lightly slurring my words as the second beer started to hit.
Perfectly crafting my mask to feign expertise in just the right way. Cramming 20 years of knowledge into 2 years of freelancing. A few keywords of jargon here, a little laugh at the right back-handed compliment there. I was both invincible and invisible.
Ultimately, I was there to move my career up into rooms I should not be in - by any means necessary.
Yet, this one question repeatedly stabbed me in the heart whenever I heard it.
"So, what do you do?"
"Sorry, what do you do again?"
"Remind me, what do you do?"
Piercing through the veil into the crevices of my soul. The confident "expert" persona I'd built for the public now folding under absolutely zero pressure.
Praying if I just sipped this beer a little longer, or excused myself to go to the bathroom, maybe they'd move onto the next topic.
Because if my disguise had worked, I could not be defined, and I could continue to be a ghost. I could hide who I truly was. I could not be judged, or hurt, or rejected.
It would be years until I realised my hatred for this one question was a warning sign I should not have ignored.
Barcelona, 2025.
The taxi ride from Barcelona airport felt eternal. Headlights flickering in my blurred vision, I knew my life was about to drastically change.
Barcelona holds a special place in my heart. Marking two distinct phases in my life. The first time in January 2017 when I was 21, with a new girlfriend, and deciding to freefall into a career as a brand identity designer. The possibilities were vast and endless. This time in February 2025 though, the only similarities, were the city, canisters of 35mm film in my pockets, and a sense of change.
Everything else had fallen away.
A familiar silhouette came into view on the final corner of my taxi ride. Leaning out the window I attempted to flag him down, my tongue twisted from the last few days of monk-like silence in Porto. A grunting "wazzup" spooked my driver and spun the person around. An aggressive bark would have achieved the same goal.
CJ met my eyes, and despite my internal terror (and terrible greeting), I was home.
The building's elevator groaned under our weight. 15kg of bags on my body, crammed into a space designed for two 5' 3" Nonnas on their way home with the day's groceries. Grinding our way to the top floor CJ and I stood largely in silence smiling as I tried to quiet my mind.
Once again, I'd decided to throw myself into the lion's den. Meeting a large number of new people, and travelling with them to a foreign country. I had done this before but, I was also not used to this.
The ping of the elevator startled my senses. Pulleys locking into place. There was no turning back now.
My shoulders felt little relief as my bags found a new home on the bedroom floor. The sound of light chatter filled the corridors. Heart pounding, I took a moment to hide in the bathroom and catch my breath. The ghoul in the mirror looked hideous with deep bags under his eyes. Not even a splash of cold water on my face could break that spell.
Out of place, and out of my mind, I shut the door behind me.
Sparkles from the overhead LEDs bounced off the disturbingly bright white tiles with each step towards the loud conversation pit. Although this style of interior design is not uncommon in Mediterranean households, you could tell this Airbnb host had intentionally made everything wipe-clean for a reason.
(Un)fortunately, there was no decorative whiskey barrel for me to slam my beer down onto this time.
"Hi, I'm Colton, nice to meet you."
Within minutes I was absorbed by the blossoming group. There were no cliques here. No dick measuring contests, or paycheque flashing passive aggressive sword fights. Only fresh smiles as my eyes drifted around the room, connecting with friends I hadn't quite met yet.
Wine mysteriously found its way into my hand, rapidly melting away the day's tension.
As night fell we found ourselves at Salamanca's for a paella family dinner down near the waterfront.
A dish I have historically had disagreements with. Remember the previous Barcelona trip I mentioned? Well, the only bad thing about it was nearly vomiting at the sight and smell of a monstrous mound of paella. Who thought putting giant sea insects, still in their shells, in a spiced rice dish was an optimal way of consuming them? The waiter's face was understandably upset when I sent most of it back to the kitchen.
But, this time was different. This time I would eat the sea bugs - and like it.
The staff had settled us on one long table upstairs so, I assume, we couldn't upset any of the locals on a Friday night. American accents have a certain way of cutting through social settings like a razor blade. There were no complaints from me though, as I was the parasitic Cuckoo in the bird's nest this time.
My lungs full of second-hand smoke we joked and got to know each other. Candidly sharing small morsels of food and spilling wine under every plate. Free shots were given out like candy every time we mentioned it was someone's birthday in the near future or recent past.
I could make a crude joke without feeling like I'd be ostracised for it, be goofy, or even lightly flirt with the girls at the table. Always making sure to fill up their wine before my own.
"Editor's note: I shot a roll of 35mm film that night but, it disappeared somewhere along the way. Maybe it was lost in the sands of the Sahara Desert before I could get the photographs developed."
A familiar smell wafted between the layers of cigarette smoke. Everybody's eyes flicked to the open doorway.
The paella was here.
Presented on serving plates that required two people to lift them, the waiters delicately tilted the behemoth dish towards us. Golden rice contrasted with the deep black of mussels, red of lobster, and muted speckled crab orange. Instinctively flinching at the sight, the wine in my hand mysteriously vanished in one swig.
Our plates were portioned, a subtle twist as they were placed in front of us.
I sat and made eye contact with the head of a langoustine until the crustacean's soul became mine. Without allowing myself a moment to overthink, my stomach made a new friend.
Laying in bed that night my nervous system was wrecked. The wine and smoke leaving my body in a state of wired but, tired. Apparently removing the mask was more exhausting than clinging onto it for dear life. Funny that.
The first thing in my mouth the next day was potato croquettes from a local café. Deliciously crunchy exterior, with the soft insides hot enough to melt through my cheek. It was empty in there with menu items in both English and Spanish, usually a sign you're about to be ripped off either with portion size, or price. This time, it was portion size.
We'd done the usual. Woken up late, paced a little waiting to acquire more members of our motley crew, and headed out for breakfast. My body oddly fresh. Alcohol usually hates me, and I hate it back, but it seems to have the ability to flush you out like nothing else.
Sometimes you need to check your liver still works y'know.
Finding ourselves at the gates of the Sagrada Familia, flashbacks from 8 years ago entered my mind. Although the day was more overcast than last time, the light still poured through the stained glass, each individual ray visible against the tree-like pillars. Standing in the same spots I did as a young man, every major life decision ripped through my vision.
"Maybe things would have been different if I had just..."
"Why did I do..."
But, that didn't matter anymore. Things were different this time.
Cheap headphone cables swung back and forth from the ears of the crowd, each of them rotating in unison to the military diktats of their virtual guide. The low hum of multiple languages echoed around the chambers destroying any hope of a peaceful spiritual experience.
I rarely take audio guides. The distraction of someone else rambling in my brain creates too much of a gap between being present, and the slow meandering pace I want in a monument like the Sagrada. Let me bask in the moment and stumble into the untouched corners on my own thank you very much.
Breaking away from the group, one of the small chapels behind the main altar came into view. The bench bent under my weight, the old dark wood glossy from years of jean pocket polishing. I took a moment to say a short prayer. Forgiving myself, and those closest to me, whilst expressing gratitude for this unexpected fresh start, and the strength to continue forward.
My time at the Sagrada Familia came to a melancholy close. Excited about the future, whilst vividly grieving for the past.
The night rolled in and bright chatter began to fill the hallways again. Music filling the spaces between words.
A freshly lit fire scored my bones, the white tiles now feeling like fresh powder snow rather than the ceramic floor of a sanatorium. Cigarettes, alcohol, and pizza bounced between hands of our ever-growing group, the final members rolling in to loud welcomes and hugs before they'd even crossed the threshold. It was clearly going to be a long night.
(Cigarette) Tips were touched and I spent the evening flashbanging anyone who got in my line of sight. My film camera now an extension of my arm rather than a tool I kept firmly in my pants.
Eyes descended upon me as I began explaining the rules of the card game Shithead (aka Palace or Shed). A game I had played religiously the last two years of high school came back with a vendetta. The entire room was locked in, waiting with bated breath for the next set of rules as I flicked cards across the glass coffee table. Putting my newfound confidence to the test from the very moment I acquired it.
For years I had been telling my branding clients to, "be yourself" yet until that night I had committed the cardinal sin of my industry every single day. Pretending, hiding, and deflecting anyone who tried to scratch beneath the surface of my plastic facade.
Not even a mischievous Joker could save my face now.
Every card played pulled us all in closer. The edge of our seats became the default position, inches of comfort sacrificed for milliseconds more time to strike. Yet, as tensions grew, I relaxed more. Chipping away at the iced wall around the corners of my veil. Roars erupted across the table as CJ and Hoyt debated the ruleset I had explained to them only moments before. Putting the whole room on edge expecting hands and glasses to fly despite the purely boysterous undertone.
I'd found a home amongst these strangers, and kicking their ass at a card game from my teens felt surprisingly good.
With the final cards being dealt we wandered the dark streets hunting for more cigarettes against the neon lights.
I let out a sigh of relief, knowing this was only day two.
Connor x
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