A few days ago my brother Santiago called me and told me he had an itch.
"An itch for what?" I asked him hoping he wouldn't need an ointment.
"To go to Spain" he said with crisp cellular clarity. And for some reason I didn't tell him that I did too.
Last night, I dreamt I met a boy from Barcelona. He was thin, had tanned olive tone skin and his brown hair was clipped short but flirted with a fashion mullet in the back. He wore a white leather jacket with blue and red stripes and lettering on the chest that proudly announced his home town. He was a soccer player or in a band or something like that. No wait he was a designer, I remember now because there was this dress that some pretty girl friend of mine was wearing and he was happy that she brought it back to him in tact. He was straight by the way. But as soon as I heard him say he needed to take the dress back to Barcelona, I yelled at him about how much I love that city, even though I ever only spent 3 days there. And he seemed very pleased to hear that. We became fast friends talking loud into each other's ears, with the commotion of the nightlife pulsating around us. We clicked our glasses together, or plastic cups or beers, but the eye contact was never forced. We even peed next to each other at the urinals, just to keep the conversation going. Outside the sky swirled above like paint upon a fresco the purples and pinks of a looming dawn and I remember him looking at me and extending his arm toward a dark alley that only promised the twinkle of bright lights around the bend. And of coarse I wanted to go, but before I could take a step, the dream shifted and the alley, the party around us and the boy from Barcelona flashed into some other reality that I must have forgotten, but I didn't wake up. I just kept dreaming.
Te echo mucho de menos Barcelona... but I need to go somewhere I've never been.