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My spanish vocabulary was composed purely of Dora the Explorer. I had fifty euros to my name, despite having worked full-time for the entirety of the summer. I was threatened with being stabbed at 4 am on the bus to Heathrow. Yet, somehow, I found peace in Barcelona. It was never a place I had a staggering inclination to go. Had I not been offered a bed in an Aparteasy on La Villaroel by my best friend of eight years, I doubt I would ever have gone. Lying next to that four-by-two meter rooftop pool, listening to Sticky Fingers on Mia’s UE Boom, eavesdropping on the lads holiday staying on floor-three, that was peace. My father, and many people of his generation I’m sure, are exclaiming that a few rays of sun and some - frankly amazing - babaganoush, are not going to fix what only citalopram can. “You can run away from a situation, but you can never run away from yourself” I can hear my Grandmother echoing. A feeble “It’s worth a shot!” I reply. London’s eyes haunt me sometimes. Pale, male and stale eyes piercing through you while your doing your makeup on the tube. An inability to find peace, whether that’s in an Uber alone at 2am where drivers suggestively state “I drive many nice young ladies around… I mentor some, make dinner for them too”; or whether that's whilst swimming in the Serpentine Lido, filled with fear of someone stealing your bag on the embankment. The boys who looked straight out of Love Island hit their ping pong ball back and forth. The sun reflects off the water, undisrupted by any towering buildings, Mia and myself go from tanning our back, to our front. No eyes are on me. A crisp white wine, some pitta bread, and Mia’s favourite of dukkah, olive oil, and bread were needed. We plod down the cold concrete steps in our bikinis, starting to feel the prickle of a burn on our cheeks. A white t-shirt, with an unfortunate grey tinge, is what I pick out. Accompanied with floaty shorts, appropriate for the 34 degree weather. We traipse along Carrer de la Riera Alta and find Llop. The waitress is not phased by our need to speak english, despite Barcelona’s reputation for hating tourists. She brings us the wine to bring a different kind of warmth to our cheeks. We leisurely make our way through freshly baked pitta bread, babaganoush, hummus, dukkah and olive oil before moving onto burrata salads. Jazz glides us through our meal. The repetitive guitars don’t bring any irritation, despite my hate of the genre and fiery Aries nature. From listening to Sticky Fingers, to having them; Kinder Bueno ice cream drips down from it’s waffle cone as we take in the muted chaos of Las Ramblas. Childhood memories of being at Kohimarama beach in New Zealand flow back to me. Burning beige sand and pohutukawa flowers replaced with panot flor de Barcelona. It is true, you cannot run away from yourself. However, you can run away and simultaneously find a better version of yourself. In Barcelona my eyes - which typically look down to avoid others gaze in London - were open: people watching, taking in the different architecture. My motivation for learning returned, wanting to absorb as much of this golden city as possible. The joy of being able to be in a half-asleep daze but also more alive than ever, was not lost on me. That was peace, that was Barcelona. Alas, like a dip in that four-by-two pool awoke me from my nap, the Picadilly line at 6pm on Monday evening prised me from peace.