Another opportunity like this would be rare, he thought to himself, as he struggled through the humid morning Mediterranean air. It was not even ten and the shadows cut sharply on the ancient streets and buildings. Alone at last in this ancient city of Gaudi, alone at last among the Gothic, the Baroque, the Medieval, and the Modern. The train ride from Saintes the night before left its mark in aching muscles and sleepy eyes. He remembered the train passing under a bridge by Santiago Calatrava outside Gerone earlier that morning and wondered if anyone else noticed or even gave it a second thought. The separation from the others offered a strange and solitary solace. Too bad, they learned later, for David; after he finally escaped from the train, he locked himself in his tiny room for the week inebriating himself on Pineaut while watching Spanish TV. He seemed like the type who had already had his adventures, the type that was afraid their best was behind them. It had been a difficult summer for some.He finally stumbled onto Las Ramblas, the most amazing boulevard in the world, capped at the top by the huge Plaza de Catalunya and terminating before the sea with a monument to Columbus, one of Spain's minor contributions to the New World. Seeking refuge at the first Pensione he found, he took a small room at the end of a winding hall that overlooked a busy intersection of Las Ramblas. Theater students worked during the summer as mimes, posing for tourists as Greek Statues and Roman soldiers. Occasionally the circus would draw some to imitate the farce because they lost their belongings to thieves and vagabonds. Some, less imaginative about it, just panhandled with a sign that spelled out there plight in Deutch, English, Francais, y Español. After orienting himself with the huge map he had pinned to the wall, he collapsed into the comfort of the bed. His first siesta in Spain would last until dusk, awakened not remembering if he had dreamt anything, and knowing if he had it probably would not have compared to the adventure that lie ahead.
	After rubbing the sleep from his eyes he looked into the scene below on Las Ramblas, it had not changed except for the long shadows stretched across the other side of the street. Famished, he stepped into the street and felt a surge, a rhythm. The crowd drew him into its heart, like the strong undertow of a sly stream. He was walking briskly from one side to the next dodging couples and kids, punks and prostitutes, Castillians and Catalans. The dense canopy of trees in places overhead provided some shade and another type of syncopation. The streams of people seemed to never end; pouring in from all sides. Weaving himself through, a serenity overcame him; his observation placed him outside himself. He felt invisible absorbing the colors and aromas. He felt a realization that he was now no longer a student of architecture as objects in the city but a student of cities as architecture.
	He had arrived at the terminus, the round-about, the Column to Columbus, bought a Cola from a beach vendor, wandered up to the Porto Olympico, and then dodged into the Barrio Gothic. Paella was the first thing on his mind but his pace would not let him stop until his muscles ached. He peeked in and out of shops and tapas, bought some harsh Spanish Ducados and finally settled down at a restaurant that was not yet full. For the previous month he had attempted to become a vegetarian to some degree of success, but he knew that would end now as he devoured his first meal of the last 24 hours. It wasn't all that great, but it was enough.
	Finally making it back to the plaza around eight he gave a call to Llibert, a classmate of his whom he had last seen in Paris three months earlier. Llibert would only be able to show him Barcelona that night because he was leaving on a flight back to Houston the next afternoon. Llibert showed up around ten thirty to show him some of the more obscure and difficult places to reach. Mount Tibidabo was first. A purple and dark shroud replaced the hazy sky, from where they were they could see all of Barcelona, including Parc Guell, all laid out like a diverse and seething carpet before the edge of the Mediterranean. Their location offered a servile view up to the high-tech radio tower. He imagined all the different ideas being transmitted from that antenna. Was anyone listening? Was anyone else looking?
	Returning to the city in time to watch more of the milieu of people on Las Ramblas, he wouldn't see Llibert until graduation. The following day he sat alone again as he asked for a cold pitcher of Sangria and flirted with the cute brunette waitress. Drifting among the different worlds of his consciousness, the present locale, and the far away places of the book he was reading at the time. 'Skinny Legs and All' was very good company until he would meet someone, which wouldn't be long. That night and the next he took notice of a certain young woman who looked apart from everyone else. She had a determined look in her eyes and a stride of certainty in her walk that seemed foreign. Back and forth she would go, alone at times, accompanied by a different man at others. Their frequency and their body language was not what one would expect of a party girl; though he could only guess. Her demeanor seemed as if she knew something more of the city than most of the tourists around. He determined he would meet her.
	Finishing his last cigarette and Sangria, he found motivation for his introduction. He slipped into the surging rhythm again, it wasn't a dance but more of a ballet set to a swingin' jazz tune: the buoyant night-time crowd was more aggressive than earlier in the day - Boom! He walked carefully past hell's gate - Bam! He ducked, dodged, swayed, and shifted. This time the crowds moved off the path and into the crawling traffic, forcing it to a stop. The air was still hot and balmy but better than earlier. He thought he caught a glimpse of her: no, it was someone else. He turned back to where he began as others instinctively returned for another pass.Finally he caught a glimpse of her approaching from the other side of the spectacle on the sidewalk. Luckily the Flamenco dancers had momentarily caught her attention as she stopped to watch. This was his opportunity.
	He stood next to her for a moment and then asked, "Perdona me por favor. Tienes un ciagarro?" "Si, are you American?" She responded as she held out a cigarette, "My name is Providence."