A cushion trembles in front of me, lodged somewhat uncomfortably geometrical between its couch and the tea table my legs were stretched out on.
The wind that caused this is the same wind that stirs the tree branches gently outside, sweeping over the Collserola mountain range, into our dorm room and out the door; all the way to Barcelona, where it is choked up in granny lungs smoking two packs a day and exhaled in sandstone Primark, where Barbie merch is on sale.
A moth is sucked in via the wind tunnel to our room, disappearing from sight. I watch, vaguely concerned. An ant - no, a jumping ant? - makes its way up the treacherous incline of the cushion, until it falls onto the floor in defeat.
Ah, I think, about time. A hybrid clump of trash made out of dust, hair and something that looks like tissue swirls helpless in little eddies on the tiled floor.
I had not envisioned my Barcelona Friday afternoon like this, laptop on my knees, obsessively tying and retying my hair, observing the mess that is our living room. Somewhere else I’m downing cheap potent sangria and laughing a bit too boisterously with like minded foreign friends. At times I stroll out the open door and lean on the shaded balcony railing, centimetres away from a biting sun, watching people doing exactly that at a cafe to the left. To the right, a pool too hot to swim in; further out, rolling plains, the odd castle, cars going places. The only clouds in the entirety of this country, plane trails meet once then part ways.
Just this lunch I was at the cafe, introducing Korean to Singaporean, Brazilian to British, talking about how much sexual politics on TV matches our course content. Trying to fit the disjointed exchange student experience into one box and top it with a bow.
I sat and thought about these things. Raking fingers through my hair by way of combing, they come up with strands which I let fly. Collecting and floating along Spanish ground, they will probably be here much longer than me.
I really could be trying to connect more with different places and people, maybe I even should, but I’m busy enjoying the way the breeze is buffeting the soles of my feet.
I walk over to the mouth of the wind tunnel and stretch out on the couch headlong. Only then did I notice the trill of cicadas, and a fat pigeon still on a branch, seemingly listening too.
WORD
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