an autumn morning in barcelona
Happy Friday. If you’re in the States, I hope you had a restful day yesterday, filled with plenty of good food and good people. I’m a little tired of having opinions, if I can be honest, so today, for the day after Thanksgiving, I thought I’d take you through yesterday morning, not because it was particularly eventful, but because it was nice. Maybe we’ll bleed into the afternoon, but as per usual my focus will remain on the day’s earlier hours. A matter of preference; you understand.
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Later today, I’m making what I am convinced is a Uruguayan dessert but that, when I google, also reveals itself to be from other places, too. Fine. Our version includes dulce de leche, so I have to assume it’s superior. Real ones will know I’m plant-based, which will surprise no one who has read anything I’ve written and clocked my occasional holier-than-thou attitude … sorry. I’m very lowkey about my dietary preferences, which I realize sounds like something an actually lowkey person would not say, but this is how you know it’s true: I’m using real butter and real dulce de leche in this dessert. Mostly because I’m making it for other people, and I don’t want to skimp on flavor. Respectfully to my fellow vegans, etc. If I were a more skilled cook or if I had more time, I’m sure I could make a fully vegan salchichón de chocolate1 and no one would be the wiser. But I’m not, and I don’t!
I mention this because after journaling and my two cups of coffee, I go on a long walk and on the way back, I stop by the grocery store and buy the ingredients I was missing (butter and chocolate; for the sake of balance I pick up a couple of bananas and apples—once every ten months or so I remember apples exist and I’m like if I don’t bite into a crisp apple right this second I will die).
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The first few hours of the day make me see the loveliness in everyone. It’s why I try to go on a long stroll most mornings. I mean: how can I not be endeared by the two old ladies walking arm in arm, heads mere inches apart as they gossip the morning away? The toddler too young to be in school, bundled up to the nines in a puffy jacket and a scarf and gloves and a hat because if there’s one thing Spaniards and Catalans alike are afraid of it’s Catching A Cold, letting out gleeful, ear-piercing shrieks as he runs away from his mother toward the end of the block? The grumpy-looking man carrying not one, not two, but three baguettes under his arm?
It’s why I don’t understand when people don’t like walking. Who wouldn’t want the chance to briefly and ephemerally fall in love with twelve to seventeen strangers?
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I think about this dessert I’m making while I’m walking and Cleo Sol is playing through my headphones. It’s been years since I last made it, so last night I voicenoted my great-aunt to ask for advice. She replied overnight and I play her message on my walk. I can hear my godfather in the background, providing his own tips even though I’m 99.9% sure he’s never made it in his life. The gall. While listening to their voices (si es para adultos, le agrego un toque de algo fuerte … un whisky … pero un poquito nada mas, eh!), I remember they gifted me a grey wool hat when I last saw them in August, and I make a mental note to wear it next week.
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Making dessert for other people reminds me of my grandmother, who rarely ate dessert. Her sweet tooth was tragically absent, so whenever she made sweets—which, when we visited as children, was often—she’d call up someone with an appreciation for sugar so they could taste them in her stead. I was a frequent and happy recruit. My own sweet tooth has sadly faded as I’ve gotten older, so I’ve followed in my grandma’s footsteps and recruited a taster of my own. My friend, who happens to be Uruguayan as well, is coming by later and I’m hoping she’ll be honest.2
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There are Black Friday signs outside some stores, which is a strange thing to see outside of the States. I know I said I wouldn’t have opinions today, but it feels perverse. We could be spreading the gospel of sweet potato casseroles and instead we’re exporting rampant consumerism.3
I don’t have any plans to actually celebrate today, but I have been watching A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving almost nightly over the last couple of weeks. It’s nostalgic in a Mr. Rogers sort of way and also, respectfully, perfect to fall asleep to. I think at this point I could recite it by heart.
Last year a friend from New York visited over the holiday; it was a very cold Thanksgiving Day, so we went to the cinema to watch Wicked. Neither of us loved it, she because she doesn’t appreciate musicals, me because I do. This year, it feels right to be cooking with and for friends. I love sharing food with people. Between that and walking, I’m like, ah, this is what I’m alive for. A few weeks ago I stopped seeing someone in part due to the fact that we’d rarely have a meal together, and I was like, well, there’s only room for one person who’s weird about food in a relationship, and I’m afraid it’s gonna have to be me.
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It’s chilly out today, and my hands do not leave my pockets. Probably should’ve worn a scarf, judging by the scolding glances I receive from the old ladies who shuffle by me. Still glad I’ve gone out. I occasionally regret a night out because of course I do, but never a brisk walk before lunch. Even if my nose is Rudolph red by the time I get home.
There’s something nourishing about mornings. It can be like sitting in comfortable silence with someone, maybe in the front seat of a car or people-watching in a sunny cafe, when a thought pops into your head, not an important one, and you wonder if you should break the silence for this random thought; maybe it’ll ruin the moment. In the end you decide to say it and the other person says hey isn’t that weird, I was thinking of the exact same thing. And you go back to silence, with the knowledge that within it, you are sharing the same memory. Good mornings can feel like this—like everything is working in perfect harmony and I’m both an observer and a participant.
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Someone honks from a motorcycle and it happens to be a break between songs, so I look up. It’s a man, and he’s wearing a helmet and waving at me. At first I assume it’s a random person being annoying, but his wave is disconcertingly polite, so I pretty much immediately feel guilty about my instinctive little frown, realizing that I probably know him. And indeed: a few hours later I have a message from a friend, someone I met at a jazz bar a year ago almost to the day, saying sorry if I scared you, that was me from the motorcycle. Turns out we’re neighbors. Not for the first time, I remind myself not to assume the worst.
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When I get back home, butter and apples chucked into the fridge and water boiling for my pasta, my neighbor’s music starts trickling into my apartment again. For days now she’s been toggling between Fleetwood Mac, Olivia Dean, and Coldplay. Very soon I’m gonna go over and run a little wellness check, I think. Our apartments are close enough that sometimes Spotify will pop up with an offer to join her so-called jam. We’ve never met, but I’m tempted to. Could add some Talking Heads to the queue. Maybe a bit of Britney. Stromae. Anything that’ll get our serotonin going and won’t make me think boy am I glad we don’t live in a high rise.
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Hope you all have a lovely weekend.
P.S. I’m pretty sure the chocolate salami turned out too bitter.
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Chocolate salami, my friend informs me.
(She was not.)
I wanted to add “the new manifest destiny” to this paragraph, but I didn’t. That’s what resolve looks like btw. And they say I’m not a chill girl.
I've been reading your substack for a while and this might be the best one yet! Loved every word
You should do these more often because that was very very good. Really nice documentation and description. "Everything is working in perfect harmony and I’m both an observer and a participant." Happy Thanksgiving!