The seasons are changing. The sycamores along Passeig de Picasso are shedding their seeds, the temperature is dropping—particularly at night—and, slowly but surely, the number of tourists wandering the streets is finally dwindling. Ironically—or perhaps serendipitously—these changes arrive at a time when, for one reason or another, I’m leaving the old town. It’s a sad time in many ways. But it’s a relief, too. I mean, I’m not saying I won’t miss the clack-clack-clack of high heels, the drunken “singing”, or the old man hacking up a lung at five o’clock in the morning, it’s just… um… I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
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