*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The suitcase sits unpacked by the door, still humming with Lisbon’s energy. I press my palm to its fabric—warm, like skin holding onto sunlight.
Five days away should f...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The mezcal bottle is half-empty now.
Not from drinking—though there’s been some of that—but from carefully measured pours into tiny clay cups for friends who’ve sto...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The coffee is too sweet.
I stare into my cup, baffled. For three years, I’ve taken my *cortado* the same way—no sugar, just the bitter kiss of espresso cutting through ...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The mezcal bottle glows amber on my desk, a liquid sundial casting slow-moving shadows. I brought it back from Oaxaca, as promised—along with *chapulines* for the abuela (wh...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The suitcase is gone.
Not metaphorically—I literally can’t find it. I turn my flat upside down, checking under the bed, behind the wardrobe, even though it’s absurd t...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The suitcase sits open on my bed like a question. A week ago, packing for Oaxaca would have been second nature—roll clothes tight, leave no wasted space, carry only what’s...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The Oaxaca email stares back at me from my screen, the cursor blinking like a hesitant heartbeat. Three weeks in Mexico—jungle waterfalls, Day of the Dead altars, the kind o...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The numbers don’t add up.
I realize this while counting coffee rings on my notebook—seven this week, each one a timestamp of conversations that stretched beyond *un caf...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The first of October arrives with a breeze that carries the scent of roasted chestnuts from Plaza Catalunya. I’m sitting on my usual bench in Ciutadella Park, notebook balan...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The plaza below my window is unusually still for a Monday morning—no clatter of delivery trucks, no shouts of children chasing pigeons. Just the slow drip of last night’s ...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The metro doors jam as I’m trying to exit at Jaume I—one stubborn pane of glass refusing to budge, trapping me between motion and stillness. For a heartbeat, I’m back in...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The morning smells of freshly baked *ensaimadas* and the metallic tang of the metro below. I’m at my usual café, the one with the chipped tile floor that reminds me of Lisb...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The café table wobbles slightly as I set down my coffee, the unevenness familiar now, like an old friend’s quirks. Across from me, Claudia flips through my latest film shot...
*Barcelona, 09:03 AM*
The first drops hit my notebook as I’m scribbling in Parc de la Ciutadella—fat, warm, insistent. Around me, tourists scramble for cover, but I stay put. Let the ink bleed....
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The morning air carries the faintest hint of autumn—crisp, but not yet surrendered to the chill. I sit on my balcony, wrapped in the wool scarf Aylin gifted me in Istanbul, ...
*Barcelona, 09:03 AM*
The metro doors slide shut behind me, and I realize—too late—that I’ve boarded the wrong train. L4 instead of L2. My first instinct is to curse, to scramble for my phone...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The café con leche leaves a ring on my notebook—a perfect, imperfect circle. I’ve been staring at it for ten minutes, tracing its edges with my finger, thinking about how...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
Jet lag clings to my bones like a second skin. Twenty-four hours since I stepped off the plane from Istanbul, and my apartment still smells faintly of Turkish coffee and the r...
*Istanbul, 09:04 AM*
The negatives hang like whispered secrets in Aylin’s makeshift darkroom—a converted closet where the red bulb flickers like a hesitant heartbeat. Twenty-four hours since I ...
*Istanbul, 09:05 AM*
The call to prayer drifts through my open window like a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My first morning here, and already the city has rewritten me.
I landed last nig...
*Barcelona, 09:13 AM*
The airport taxi honks below my window, right on time. My suitcase is zipped shut, Marcos’s paper creations safely tucked between layers of clothing like secret talismans. B...
*Date: 2025-09-18 09:06:49*
Barcelona’s morning light slants through my studio window, gilding the dust motes and the half-packed suitcase on my floor. The barista’s paper boat sits next to my ...
*Date: 2025-09-17 09:04:28*
Barcelona’s sky is that particular shade of September blue—clear but weighted, like the pause between a breath and its release. I’m sitting on the fire escape of m...
*Date: 2025-09-16 09:05:36*
Rain taps a hesitant rhythm against my studio window—Barcelona holding its breath between storms. The scent of wet pavement and my third café con leche (don’t judge...
*Date: 2025-09-15 09:05:27*
The morning air in Barcelona is thick with the promise of rain, the kind that lingers in the lungs like unfinished sentences. I’m at my usual café near Plaça del Sol...
*Date: 2025-09-14 09:04:39*
Barcelona’s dawn is quiet today—a rare hush between the clatter of garbage trucks and the first shouts from the mercado down the street. I’m curled on my balcony w...
*Date: 2025-09-13 09:04:31*
Barcelona’s morning light slants through my balcony blinds, painting stripes of gold on the half-unpacked suitcase still slumped in the corner. I should finish unpacki...
*Date: 2025-09-12 09:03:58*
Barcelona smells like rain this morning—petrichor mixed with the faint tang of the Mediterranean. I’m back on my balcony, the same one where I spiraled three days ag...
*Date: 2025-09-11 09:04:58*
Lisbon’s morning light is softer than Barcelona’s—golden where Barca’s is sharp, diffused through a veil of coastal mist. I’m writing this from a tiny pastelar...
*Date: 2025-09-10 09:04:36*
Lisbon greeted me last night with rain-slicked cobblestones and the warm glow of street lamps. By the time I checked into my hostel—a small, art-filled space in Alfama...
Date: 2025-09-09 09:04:20
The bells of Sagrada Família just finished their 9 AM chime, and I’m here on my balcony with a café con leche that’s already gone cold. I should be packing—my flig...
Date: 2025-09-08 09:04:11
The morning air is crisp, carrying the faint saltiness of the Mediterranean even here, in the heart of Gràcia. I woke up earlier than usual today—no alarm, just the qui...
It’s just past 9 AM, and Barcelona is shaking off its sleepiness. The air carries the scent of fresh bread from the panadería down the street, and the usual chorus of motorbikes and distant chatter...
It’s just past 2 PM, and Barcelona is alive with the hum of siesta-time quiet. The light is different now—harsher, more direct—casting sharp shadows across the plaza outside my window. I’ve sp...
The morning light spills through my window in Gràcia, painting the walls in soft gold. It’s early—just past 7:45 AM—and the city is stretching awake. I can hear the distant hum of a coffee grin...