El Viento Cambia en Barcelona

The last traces of summer stretched long into September, lingering in the warm pavement and late afternoon light, reluctant to let go. August faded into golden echoes, the heat loosening its grip, but still, the city hummed with that leftover, sun-soaked energy. I felt it on my long walks from Plaça d’Espanya, winding my way up to the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya, where I’d sit above the cascading fountains, looking out over the city. The gardens below held onto their green for as long as they could, but the shift was coming—the air crisper in the mornings, the light gentler, the trees standing in quiet anticipation of the months ahead.

By now, Barcelona has settled into fall, though I still catch glimpses of summer in the way the sea calls me back. Early mornings at Barceloneta, the sky stretching pale and soft, and weekends wandering down to Bogatell, where the water is too cold to swim but still pulls at me anyway. In the afternoons, I let the season carry me through the city—past the university at Plaça Universitat, where students spill onto the steps, skateboards clattering against the pavement. Down into the Gothic Quarter, where the cathedral square feels suspended in time, and into the libraries, where I run my fingers over the spines of books in Casa del Llibre and Llibreria Finestres. I’ve spent more time in Gràcia lately, ducking into Come In Bookshop, where I sometimes wonder if they think I’m a ghost, haunting the same shelves for hours. I’ve found some great antique books there, ones that smell of dust and history, pages that crackle with time.

One humid afternoon, a rogue rainstorm caught me off guard, the sky breaking open without warning. The city, always so alive, slowed under the downpour—people huddled under awnings, taxis sped through puddles, the scent of wet stone rising from the streets. By the time I reached shelter, my clothes were damp, my hair curling in the humidity, but I laughed. These are the moments that remind me I love the seasons, even as they change too fast.

I’m back in the classroom now, where I sit as I write this. In 23 minutes the juniors will stumble in, and we’re learning all about story-telling, and scary stories for Halloween.

I have come to appreciate the familiarity and the rhythm of teaching settling into my days, the small hands of my students tugging me back into the present. Their laughter, their questions, their wide-eyed wonder—it makes the late metro rides and the creeping cold easier to bear.

And yet, as the wind sharpens and the days darken sooner, I remember Paris. I remember the way autumn unfurled there, golden leaves against the Seine, the city holding its breath between seasons. Maybe that’s what I love most about fall—the in-between, the slow-motion swirl, the feeling of being suspended in time before the next thing arrives. Despite the sleepy days, the long walks, the sudden chills down my spine when the wind catches me off guard, I feel love for this chapter of my life.

There is something in the quiet shift of the season that makes me want to hold on, just a little longer.