When Did That Happen?

7:56, just before the alarm. I set down the clock and rolled back over to look at the ceiling and wake up for next four minutes. A few morning sounds filtered in through my window, which opened up into the interior of the building. I listened to the indistinguishable morning conversations of my neighbors, birdsong from the cages hanging in other windows, and echoes of the noise from the street. It was relatively quiet, but I knew that soon the sounds of jackhammers and construction would invade through the walls. When I’d first moved in I would bolt upright in bed at the sound of it, cursing to myself and suggesting that the construction workers’ mothers were promiscuous and, perhaps, canine. Lately, though, I was already awake and getting ready by the time the work started. Today was no different; the first groans of construction were beginning as I got out of bed.

I awoke fully and dressed. I looked briefly in the mirror and, not for the first time, failed to recognize myself. I had lost weight; my own jawline was a stranger to me. I hadn’t gotten a haircut since arriving in Barcelona, and now my hair was longer than it had been in years. I patted it down with my hand and combed it forward with my fingers. It would come down over my eyes soon. After that I wouldn’t even see myself in the mirror, let alone have any idea who was looking back. I shrugged and the mop-headed mirror-me shrugged back.

My bag was already packed for the gym so I grabbed it and headed out the door. The morning was still cool from the night before but already, early in February, the sun was getting stronger and I knew it would be another warm, clear day by the afternoon. I walked the handful of blocks to the gym, joining the joggers and the dog walkers and the bent-forward elderly people that always seemed to be shuffling down the streets and in and out of the bakeries. The bakeries were the only businesses open at this hour, their well-lit display windows filled with almost fetishized works of art in the form of cakes, pastries, and breads. Look but don’t touch, I reminded myself. I had to remind myself again on the way home. Maybe I’d stop in for a coffee and a pastry this weekend.

I stopped at the small convenient store across the street from my building and bought some fruit to go with breakfast. The cashier told me the price and my shoulders slumped.

“I’m a little short.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he laughed. “You’re in here often enough. Don’t worry about it.”

Back home, I was showered and eating breakfast when the doorbell rang. It was the landlord, coming around the collect the rent. He was a short, older man who always smiled when we saw him in the stairwell and greeted us with an enthusiastic “Buenos días.” The first couple of times I’d met him I was still nervous about my Spanish so I had left the room, and even pretended not to be home once. This morning, however, while my roommate counted out the rent money, the landlord and I talked about the roadwork they were doing down the street, and how fast they were moving, and how it really did leave the street looking better and more open. When he left I made some coffee and a bocadillo to bring to school, and headed out into the rest of my day, which was already getting warmer.

‘When did that happen?’, I thought. When did I start to feel comfortable in this large, strange city?