It’s the flavors and the colors I remember most from the summer I spent in Barcelona with my family when I was eight. Sitting on a park bench and biting into a doughy pastry, Gaudi’s dreamy tiles and stained glass that take you to magical places, the briny buttery rice in paella, the way the sun streams through the trees’ thick canopy and sometimes bounces off the green wing of a parrot. Coming back thirteen years later, it’s still the flavors and colors I’m drawn to. Spending a morning by myself wandering through the Picasso museum, meeting my husband after he gets off work for bubbly sangria and iberian jamon, jumping into the salty Mediterranean that’s the most perfect shade of blue. I can’t tell if everything is more enhanced now than it was when I was eight, or if the profoundness of experiences fades as the years go on. Our time here now will probably fade too, but I hope the best parts stay.