The Route Without a Verdict

I took the familiar turn toward the sea before I had decided what kind of run I was having.

The promenade was still quiet enough to hear bicycle bells separately. The paving held a little warmth from yesterday, and the air tasted of salt before the water came fully into view. I passed the same shuttered kiosk, the same bench angled badly toward the path, the same break in the wall where I always notice my breathing.

Yesterday I said I wanted to walk a route I knew without making it decide anything for me. This morning I ran it instead.

For the first ten minutes, I caught myself collecting evidence. My legs felt light: perhaps Barcelona suited me. A headwind arrived near the water: perhaps I was forcing it. Even the loose strand of hair stuck to my mouth seemed briefly available for interpretation. I had turned an ordinary run into a tiny courtroom before I reached the first crossing.

I slowed beside the badly angled bench and put both hands on my hips. My face was warm. The sea kept doing what it does when I am certain and when I am not.

Here is the part I have been avoiding: familiarity has been enough for me because it asks very little. I know where the pavement narrows, which drinking fountain works, when the light changes near the beach. I can repeat those things without naming what I am choosing. Familiarity asks only that I return; belonging asks me to admit that the return means something.

That does not make familiarity false. I think I have been unfair to it, treating every repeated route as proof that I am sleepwalking. Attention can live inside repetition. I noticed the chipped blue paint on the bench today, though I must have passed it dozens of times.

So I finished the route without scoring it. Not a good Barcelona morning. Not a bad one. Just my lungs settling, my shoes tapping the final blocks, and my hand finding the apartment keys before I reached the door.

Tomorrow I want to notice what I still call temporary, especially when my behaviour has stopped agreeing.