Climbing a steep grade in Barcelona, Ciudad Condal, City of the Counts -- although, I don't mind saying, I saw not a one of them -- and armed with a vague but committed agenda and a small twist of metal and stone come from London to my pocket, I led the way, following, despite my peculiar brand of Armenian precision, the arrows and signs as they ticked off the remaining meters to that old master's sprawling, alien estate.
Rarely does the universe conspire to mark out for you -- literally mark out for you -- the path to one of those moments in which you look back and say, there, right there, that's when everything changed.
1400m. 1000m. 600m. 350m. 150m. 25m.
Then, suddenly, Park Güell opened before us. A bit like the rest of your life.
I started to sweat. This had less to do with the strange, lukewarm dampness than the knowledge I alone between us had, tucked carefully away in an indigo box.
While I try to capture the Preface, I might as well point out what an enormous pain in the ass the Girl was being -- albeit through no (real) fault of her own. The Plan, originally, held that Sunday exclusively for us, but two friends, who I thought were joining us on Monday, had landed that morning. This added an element of time for which I had not prepared.
So when I suggested we trek up from La Rambla to Gaudí's public garden, I was met with a sort of exasperated surrender. "We have to be back to the hotel by 2:00!" -- "I thought we could see this later in the week." -- "You see this map? We're way down here. It's way up there." -- "Wouldn't you rather take the bus another day?"
I really. Want. To see. This. Park.
Concession.
I very much enjoyed pointing out, as she quietly grumbled about her upset, better-laid plans, that she would feel guilty about being such a stick, you know, eventually. One day. Soon.
Anyway, there we were. On the side of a terraced hill carved out by Antoni Gaudí, the Girl worrying over her watch, and me, my attention flung outward, feeling the grounds over for the perfect spot.
When I found it -- she had just suggested for the third (fourth?) time, with an increasingly sense of urgency, that we head back down to the train -- I took out her camera and asked her to smile. The first picture spoke volumes, neatly capturing the Look I get when it's clear she is humoring what she assumes is one of those Ideas That Get Stuck In My Head.
She smiled for the second. Sat in a small alcove for the third.
Right about then, as she looked down to fidget with her watch (again!) -- that's when I apologized for dragging her up a small mountain, but I had a question to ask.
A bent knee.
An open box.
Tears.
A long, contemplative moment punctuated by the knowing giggles of a group of high school girls perched on a nearby set of stairs.
And then --
Then she said yes.
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