Yesterday was our final Saturday in Barcelona. We spent part of it selling things—two lamps, a fan, our wardrobe; now clothes are scattered throughout the apartment. We spent the afternoon at the beach. It was a beautiful day—hot but with a cooling breeze, the sky a brilliant blue. The beach was packed. The water was sparkling and clear, but still too cold for more than a quick, shivery dip. After a few hours, we drank claras at a beach bar, then headed home.
Last night, we watched a Barcelona soccer match at a bar—our last one. The Spanish league championships will continue, but we’ll have to read about the matches online. This is very sad. Afterwards, we played poker at our apartment with a friend, then went to the local xurreria for a snack—fries and a hot dog wrapped in a churro (couldn’t resist trying this strange combination).
The calm pleasantness of the day belies the utter chaos we’re in right now. Rather than hone in on a decision, we’re adding options every day; we’ve gone from being fairly certain we’re moving to CA to being not certain at all. Now a summer in Barcelona (perhaps it’s not our last Saturday after all), NYC, and London are all on the table as well; and though NH is a lesser possibility, I hesitate to delete it from the list completely. This week will be telling. At least at this point we can go ahead and sell our stuff—we won’t be staying in Barcelona, even if we wind up tacking on another month in a sublet somewhere.
Things in the apartment are getting strange and sparse. We’ve sold our bed, and it will be gone tomorrow, leaving us with only a mattress on the floor for the last four nights. We’re running out of food, but we don’t want to buy too much at the grocery store since we know we’ll be going out a lot this week; last night, my dinner consisted of part of a frozen pizza, far too many olives, French fries, and a bit of that churro-wrapped hot dog. And we’re also running out of basic stuff—sunscreen, lotion, shampoo, coffee—at just the wrong time. This last week is a limbo week in all regards.
We’re flying to Pennsylvania on Friday—though perhaps it will be I, not we; who knows—and we have no further tickets from there. A decision of some kind has to be made by July 2, at which point we’ll have to move to CA if nothing else has really solidified. I really feel like on July 2 I’m going to be at Pittsburgh airport, at the ticket-purchasing counter, waiting for a phone call from Andrew—who knows where he’ll be?—telling me what ticket to buy. It’s not too far-fetched to imagine that this could come down to a last-second decision, plane tickets purchased and cancelled right and left.