Recollections of a Shattered Childhood

I’m staring out my apartment window, taking in the tiny sliver of the Mediterranean Sea just a mere mile away. Living on the eighth floor of a nine-story building only a few decades old does have its advantages. Most apartments in Barcelona are much older, darker, and smaller. The buildings of Barrio Poblenou aren’t all that tall, so from the eighth floor, I have a nice view and sunlight all day. Friends back in the United States refer to me as an expat, but I prefer the term immigrant. Expats have lots of money. I’ve never known of that luxury.

I wound up in Barcelona after decades of living in the States, mostly in the NYC metropolitan area. Never setting up permanent roots anywhere, I spent two decades of my adult life moving from apartment to apartment. These moves were either to gain better employment or to move in with my latest lover. I’ve lived everywhere from New York City to Philadelphia and plenty of little nowhere towns between the two.

What brought me to Spain is a bit of a crazy story. During my third trip to the Republic of Tuva, a little-known and forgotten piece of southern Siberia, I met a pretty Spaniard. Something clicked inside of me, and during the height of the pandemic with its closed borders and masks and madness, I quietly meandered through Europe unnoticed, took a back door entrance, and found my way to Barcelona.