Barcelona was supposed to be temporary

Nesting in my new apartment, in the middle of a heatwave

92 degrees and humid.

The heat hasn’t relented, not even at night. The bus is packed to the brim and I’m standing shoulder to shoulder as the 60 of us inch through rush hour traffic on the Gran Via de les Corts Catalanes, a road that is as large and busy as it sounds.

The sweat is making my shirt stick to my chest. I crane my neck to get just a little bit more of the air coming from the vent. I marvel at how a young person can stay seated on a bus on such a day when mayores are standing next to them.

Six more stops to go.

Why am I even doing this, I ask myself.

I picked this day, at this time, to take myself from my new apartment in Poble Sec to the Ikea in L'Hospitalet de Llobregat simply to buy a chair—the exact right, super comfortable, high-backed armchair that I want—because, well… I’m nesting.

And a packed bus at rush hour during a heat wave ain’t gonna stop me.

One of the bedrooms looking out to the back terrace.

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I. I’ve finally stopped chasing

There’s a gold nugget of wisdom from Lauren Razavi that has been sticking in my mind since April:

…home isn’t something you find or inherit. It’s something you build, piece by piece, when you stop chasing the next better version of your life.

One cannot teach this kind of thing. I can’t just tell you to stop chasing the next better version of your life, or pursuing the next girl, the better job, the bigger house—or perhaps digital nomading your way to the next better country.

If someone had come to me earlier with this kind of advice, I would have filed it away for safekeeping, to be used in case of fire, perhaps, but not something to act on now. I’ve often been like St. Augustine: “Lord make me chaste, but not yet.”

I will settle down and commit, just not now.

But times have changed. I’m 43, and I’ve stopped chasing.

Mostly.

II. Me Enamoré

When I read Lauren’s piece, I was newly under contract on an apartment in Barcelona. Arras signed, mortgage application begun, building inspections in process.

I’d started the search for an apartment in earnest in January, just two months after getting back from climbing in the U.S.. The truth is, I’d been missing Barcelona almost since moving away last Summer.

It was supposed to be an interlude, a beautiful year with my son to give him an international experience, a brief moment in time before which I would go back to the countryside to climb and build. But it turned into something else entirely.

As I’ve been telling people about the year I spent in Barcelona, me enamoré—I fell in love.

I really didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t even think of myself as a city person. I’m a climber, a writer, a lover of fresh mountain air or warm ocean breezes.

So it has come as a surprise even to me just how firmly I feel that Barcelona is where I want to make my home, not just for the next phase of life, but indefinitely. The place to stop chasing and start building.

Which is not to say I’m not still building in the very real sense, at the renovation project. In fact, the same week Caixa Bank approved my mortgage in Barcelona, the town hall in Cornudella de Montsant approved my building permit. So I’m ready to keep moving forward there—the only difference now is that it’s a project, a place to go and climb, sink nails, run wire, pour concrete, a place to keep learning. But it’s not my home. It never did feel that way.

Meanwhile, Barcelona… Well, I will have time enough to wax poetic.

III. The irony

Ok, a little waxing: the irony of choosing Barcelona as the place to stop chasing is that this is the perfect city for chasing.

What I mean is, this city has it all. Infinite bars and restaurants, infinite little cafes and bookstores, and ridiculously cute shops. Infinite narrow streets to wander down and get lost in, or wide ramblas to stroll. Infinite options for nightlife. Last year, I wrote that Barcelona is like a fantasy playground for grown-ups, and it doesn’t matter what kind of playground you’re into. It’s all here.

Go to the beach and you will find infinite activity. Packed with tourists on one end, locals on the other, with beach volleyball and sand soccer and yachts and sailboats and anything else you can think of in between. Go to the mountains and you will pass infinite cyclists on your way to infinite trails, and arrive at enough crags and climbing routes for several lifetimes.

If you are single, there are infinite beautiful people, and infinite ways to meet them. Infinite dance classes, workshops, readings, comedy nights, language exchanges, and more. Infinite little plazas in which to sit and sip a beer, read a book, and watch the people on their way.

And if you ever want to get away, the international airport is right there.

So yes—Barcelona is a city in which it is so easy to settle down, precisely because it can always remind you: Don’t worry, I’ve got you—there is infinite possibility in the world and in your life.

Enjoying a beer after an open mic night nearby

IV. Miles to go

I shove the odd, L-shaped box with the Ikea chair in it onto the floor of the crowded bus. It’s the D-20, which is always packed. It’s one of those with two big cars connected and an accordion in the middle, enough space for about 100 people to be carted down Avenida de Parallel. My old neighborhood is to the left, my new one to the right.

At my stop, I get out and start walking up the narrow, slightly inclined calle toward Montjuïc, and my place.

Inside, I drop the box, peel off my shirt, and drop my shorts. Even those are too heavy for this heat. I look at the walls, still many to be painted. I look at the empty space in the sala, still a table and chairs, and a desk to buy. I walk down the hall past one of the bedrooms, still empty, past the nook, with boxes still sitting on the floor.

Into my bedroom, newly painted, newly hung curtains, switch on the fan, and flop onto the bed from my old place in Cornudella. Miles to go before I sleep, I think.

But finally, at long last, I have my home. I think I’ll be here for a while.