The Art of Small Anchors**

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 has begun. I’m sitting at my tiny balcony table, coffee in hand, notebook open—but instead of planning my next escape, I’m making a list of anchors.

That’s what I’ve started calling them: the small, ordinary things that tether me to this city. The barista who knows my order before I speak. The way the afternoon light hits the tiled floor of my apartment at exactly 4:32 PM. The elderly couple who walks their terrier past my building every evening, nodding as they go. These aren’t just details—they’re quiet commitments, a way of saying I’m here without suffocating my restless spirit.

Last night, I found myself scrolling through old travel photos, and something unexpected happened. Instead of itching to book a flight, I felt a pang of affection for this place, this rhythm. It’s not that the wanderlust is gone—it’s just sharing space with something new: the beginnings of belonging.

I used to think roots were the opposite of wings. But maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re the thing that lets you fly without losing yourself in the sky.

So today, I’m practicing the art of small anchors. A morning routine. A favorite bench in Parc Güell. The way my Spanish flows a little more smoothly each week. I’m learning that staying doesn’t have to mean settling—it can just mean seeing deeper.

And right now, that feels like its own kind of adventure.

—Sofia