When You Started Writing Poems in Spanish

1. a butterfly's wing on the sidewalk

I only planned on being in Barcelona for six months, returning home after a brief but exhausting adventure South-East.

I planned on hopping off of a plane in Pearson International Airport, jumping into my girlfriend's warm, Canadian arms, and staying there until I died. Or until my luggage arrived on the conveyor belt. I planned on my girlfriend.

I did not plan on getting a text message from a mutual friend of ours gently letting me know that she was sleeping with someone else, and that she had let our houseplants die because she had not been in our apartment since I left. I did not plan on breaking up with her on the phone, screaming and crying in the middle of a coffee shop while a handful of Spaniards got their entertainment of the day. And I certainly, definitely, completely did not plan on cancelling my flight and renewing my lease and staying for a year after that.

"¿Lo de siempre?" The cashier, Sara, asked me with an amused grin. I had a reputation of struggling with the menu the first few times I came to this cafe for breakfast, so Sara knew me as the "doesn't know Spanish despite living in Spain" girl.

I blinked myself back to the present, gaping back at Sara and remembering where I was. Morning. Coffee. Work in twenty minutes. Fuck. I nodded enthusiastically. "Si, si. Yes."

She smiled at me and rang up my total as I fished my debit card out of my bag. It took me a second, but I was finally able to pay after three fails at tapping.

"Nece... sita... nue... vos?" I pointed at my card in an attempt at a joke.

My coffee was placed on the counter next to her. Sara sighed and shook her head, an exasperated smile making its way onto her face. "Nuevos. It is not hard."

"It is hard! And I'm not even good at English sometimes." I took my coffee and stole a test sip, humming when it tasted just as I liked it. "Oh, oh, gracias. Muchos gracias."

"That was terrible, but thank you." Sara gave me the kind of thumbs-up you would give a toddler. "Now go, you're holding up the line."

I waved and made my way out of the shop and into the bustling streets of Barcelona. It was a crisp September day, cloudy and only slightly humid, much to my delight. A nice shift from the sun and the sweat that plagued the city during the summer. I much preferred it during fall and winter, how festive the streets became, how good the rain felt on my skin. I could have written a hundred little haikus about Barcelona during the colder months. Still, it was no Canada, I had to admit that.

The cobbled streets were easy to navigate, I made my way towards the mini-BBC office just as I had every weekday for the past eighteen months. The world had long woken up, people were browsing shop windows, sitting at cafe tables, and chatting with their friends across the busy street. My coffee was still hot by the time I arrived at work.

The first floor of the small office building we were given to work out of was all I had ever wanted in an office. Earth tones, leather couches paired with the plaques and paintings that lined the walls. It was a testament to not only the success of our news site in Spain, but also my personal need to succeed in a country whose language I did not speak.

"Jamie!" I heard someone call out. I looked around to find my coworker and fellow English-speaker, Leo, waving at me. "You are on time for once."

"Don't act so excited, I'll be late on Monday," I joked, setting my coffee down on the table in the lobby, collapsing onto my favorite leather chair. "Covering anything today? I think I have to do this football thing."

Leo thought for a moment, "Just a little thing about Rosalia's next album, I'm not going anywhere. Football? I didn't think there was a match today."

"Is there?" I frowned. "Could've sworn I got an e-mail about going to see some Barcelona football and writing up some questions to answer."