The exchange

by Ebele Aniereobi (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Spain

Walking aimlessly through Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter there are two decisions you can make, follow the sounds of street musicians or the smell of street food vendors. Out of character for someone who usually follows her stomach into bad situations, I chose the former. Under medieval archways, armed only with cherries and art equipment, my languid pace quickened until I turned the final corner. And stopped. Strong but slight, his left arm was at one with the cello bow, coaxing supple melodies that shifted something within my chest. So, I sat. Cross-legged on the cobblestones, letting it wash through me. My mind was stilled but my eyes roamed. Where they went my pen followed, scratching the paper in time with his fluid movements. But once I got to his eyes they paused. The shadow of his 1930s flat cap lifted as he looked back. I should highlight that eye contact is not a skill I have mastered, the feeling of being exposed clenches my chest and contracts my eye muscles, pulling them quickly back into the realm of safety associated with cheeks, chins, and foreheads. For some reason, however, an error signal halted my natural flight response. The music continued, my drawing did not. As the seconds flickered by, they tugged at the corner of my mouth. His gaze unwavering, the impromptu staring match suddenly had stakes and whatever they were, I couldn’t lose. My eyes betrayed me. A sly smile spread across his face. We went back and forth like this, my breathing quickening every time our eyes found their way back to each other. My phone vibrated. Let’s meet at 8 I know a nice pasta place My whimsical smile faltered. The holiday romance I’d dived into over a game of beach volleyball. Food then his place, our freshly baked routine. My eyes flicked between the Spaniard 8 feet in front of me and my phone screen. Pasta it is. Up I got, sun rays and cello strings tugging at my back as I walked away. Barri Gòtic dimmed as the music faded. My phone soon buzzed with a meeting place, converting aimlessness into food-driven purpose; woman cannot live on cherries alone. Google maps, the traitor it is, lead me right back the way I came. As I retraced my steps, my ears strained but his sound within the hubbub was absent. I paused mid-disappointed sigh as my eyes settled on a figure in the distance. I’d arrived. “Hi” As I sat in Macchina Pasta Bar, perched on a stall opposite his confident smile and rustic decor, my mind wandered back to my staring contest partner. Soft-spoken, the symmetrical down and upwards curve of his smile, a personification of the symbols on his cello. Our hands brushing as I gave him my artwork and my breathy laugh as he insisted I take two of his CDs and his card. An exchange, he said. In this pulsating city, where street corners sing out to you and beaches invite you, I wondered if that was all it should be. A brief exchange. My slow-paced days continued, orbiting around the urban art wonderland that is Base Elements, where I journaled, sketched, and become one with an armchair. Only leaving in search of food. And so, it was as I faithfully followed my stomach to green pastures my ears pricked at a familiar melody. The slow pace was no more. Rounding that same fateful corner (at a respectable speed), I slid through the gathered spectators, reclaimed my cobblestone seat, and rubbed my eyes in preparation. I can confidently say that this time I did myself proud. His sleepy greyhound took no notice of our shared looks and helpless grins. Cello packed away, I ask what he’s doing that evening, to which he replies, “I’m performing a few streets down, but we can go for a drink instead”. Heat rushes through me, our conversation takes off. Formal introductions ensue, where I officially meet Rhumba, the nonchalant hound. And I breathe in the electrified evening air as Rhumba weaves through the narrow streets ahead of us, her shadow dancing on the spray-painted walls. Beckoning for the night to truly begin.