Last week I was back in Barcelona for the first time in several months. I lived in the city between 2014 and 2017, and it didn’t take long for me to feel at home again.

As I sat outside cafes in the sunshine, I got reacquainted with some very Barcelona-style senses. Among them, the sound of the rumbling of mopeds, shouted greetings in Catalan, and the smell of fried fish.

They were reminders of daily senses I experienced when I lived in the city. And all of them made me smile. 

Within hours of arriving, I felt exactly like I did when I lived in Barcelona. It was like I’d come home.  

From feeling like a local to feeling like a tourist

On my second day back in the city, I was still pretending to be a local again. I decided I’d go to a supermarket called Casa Ametller in Poblenou to buy some food to take to the beach. It’s a store I used to shop at regularly in my old neighbourhood, Gràcia.

When I got to the checkout, the woman who worked there asked me if I had a loyalty card. I reached into my pocket for the card, but then realised it had been about a year since I’d carried it in my wallet.

There was a moment when I didn’t really know what to say. The woman must have thought that I couldn’t understand Spanish.

I realised that there was only one thing I could say.

“No, no vivo aquí.”

No, I don’t live here.

That one innocent question in the supermarket suddenly filled me with a sad realisation. I’d been walking around as if Barcelona was still my home. But it wasn’t my home anymore. I was just another visitor, like thousands of others.  

I remember the first time that I returned to London after moving to Barcelona. That was a strange feeling too. It felt odd being in a city I’d lived in for so long, but without a set of keys in my pocket.

Yet somehow this felt stranger still.   

My heart in two cities

Returning to a place that you used to call home can produce a strange emotion that seems to somehow straddle sadness and joy at the same time. Familiar yet half-forgotten sights and sounds make you smile, but then you wonder how long you’ll have to wait before you experience them again.

It’s almost as if there’s a little part of your brain that’s full of the memories and sensations of the place that you used to live. When you leave, a door closes and that area is temporarily shut off. But when you return the memories are set free again.

You recognise people in the street. Scenes play out in your old neighbourhood just as they did before you left. But you feel like a ghost. You’re just passing through.

I decided on that second day in Barcelona that I’d just have to enjoy the unique senses on offer in the city. At least for the week or so that I was there. I wouldn’t worry about not being a resident anymore.

I’d stand in the surf and watch the waves crashing around my feet. I’d eat as much fresh seafood as I possibly could. And I’d meet up with old friends and make some new ones. 

A week later as my plane back to London took off, the rooftops of Barcelona disappeared from the window on my right and were replaced by the shimmering of the light on top of the water. As I flew away from Barcelona again, I realised that the city could still feel like home even though I no longer lived there. 

Perhaps Barcelona would always feel like home. On the next visit, and the one after that.

I still have my heart in two cities, I thought. And that’s fine.