Barcelona Beauty

by Michael Longenecker (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Spain

My guitar was stolen in The North Paris Train Station within 10 minutes of my arrival. As I stood staring aimlessly at a map, a friendly-seeming chap had distracted me with animated (and surprisingly accurate) directions to my hostel, while his partner-in-crime grabbed my guitar, then they both took off running. I stood there for a minute, reflecting on the strategy. Not bad. I was too tired by that point to be mad. I was impressed! They had earned that guitar. Somewhere today I hope there's a happy Frenchman singing songs on it. As I climbed the subway stairs into the golden spotlight sun of Barcelona the next day, my pride was still stinging, though I must admit I didn't miss the weight of the heavy, cheap guitar I'd bought in my hometown of Nashville, Tennessee for this trip. I had a Eurail pass, a backpack and 3 weeks of unscheduled travel time before I had to arrive in Dusseldorf, Germany to play a show. I had taken my guitar and a notebook along to write songs for my next album, then I planned to head back to Nashville to record it. Within a few hours of arriving in Barcelona, I was sitting in a tiny music shop off Las Ramblas street strumming a gorgeous, little classical number. "Di dove sei?", she said, smiling down at me as I played. I recognized her question as "Where are you from" in Italian and I responded quickly, "Sono di Nashville in the US. Di Dove Sei?". She was a graceful, beautiful girl and I was thrilled be able to answer her in Italian, as I'd been listening faithfully to my "Pimsleur's Italian" language tapes for a few weeks before the trip. I had intentions to end up in Rome at some point on my trip, but I didn't expect to find myself using my extremely limited Italian in Spain! She beamed at me, clearly impressed. "What's your name?", she asked me in Italian. "My name is Michael, what's your name?", I said, once again in Italian. She said her name and then began speaking rapidly and enthusiastically. The trouble was my bluff had been called and I literally knew nothing more of what to say in Italian. I didn't even know how to say, "I don't speak Italian!", in Italian. I had faked my way into a complete dead-end. Eventually I had to admit my defeat and confess in English, "I'm sorry, I don't really speak Italian, I just knew enough for those first 2 sentences!" She laughed effortlessly and switched to English, much to my relief. We walked along Las Ramblas Street together, marveling at the street performers as they levitated and juggled and mimed at us along the way. She stopped at a vendor and bought some mango with chili powder and as I watched her, I remember thinking, "Take a snapshot of this in your mind for the hard times my friend. Take a snapshot of this in your mind." When we got to the beach, I stopped at the edge of the sand, where the beach began, closed my eyes, looked up at the sky and took in a long, deep breath of salt air. She watched me curiously and smiled. Later that evening we had tapas at a traditional Spanish restaurant where I ordered without fully comprehending what I was saying. Just as well. I strummed my new Spanish guitar for her, sitting in front of the fountain in the main square as the dogs barked and children played and the street-cars sang along. The next day we took a train to Gaudi's famous, "Sagrada Familia" Church, in the heart of the city. It was melting, just like everyone said. We strolled through Guell Park, snapped selfies on the lookout, and whispered admirations throughout Picasso's museum. The entire time, I was telling myself "Snapshots my friend....take snapshots". The day she had to leave, we stood in the train station, her eyes filling with tears. She kissed me softly and whispered, "We'll always have Barcelona", pushing an email address into my hand. 6 months later, I sent her a copy of my new album. "Snapshots."