The disappointing botanical gardens where we sat and talked about the sort of people we were going to be one day.
Parc Guell, where it was so hot and we were so tired that I think I fell asleep still talking, eyes open, standing up.
I read The Virgin Suicides on the plane there and on the plane back braided Amanda’s hair and wrote a story about a neighborhood and the mysterious murder of a small white dog.
The striped sweater I still have but no longer wear.
The waiter; the street performer who played complicated orchestrations on a set of water-filled goblets; the ticket-collector at the gardens who told me he liked my lipstick.
The train ride to Monserrat and the gondola ride up the mountain, where I remained convinced I was going to die and wondered what it would feel like, tumbling downwards in a tiny yellow car the size of a very small bathroom.
all film photographs taken with a Minolta X-700