The time I returned to the sun

Within whatever stretches of menial memory that cascade through my mind, the stretch of long golden road sure is one I itch return to each night when my eyes slam shut against dank English pillow. Memories of sun-baked sapphire skies and oven roasted architecture shimmering shades of eroded grey, tan and red. Amidst them all was my red skin, throbbing purple as its surface felt the force of my pointing finger. I was sure if our celestial master in the sky stared at me any longer, bubbles would begin rupturing on my shoulders like I really was a sunny side up in the fryer.

Eggs were not the star of that day however, neither was that bleeding drop of gold above. Instead, a thousand grains of sand presented their entirety to my bulging eye globules. They hugged each other with sticky saliva, flecks of red dispersing between their sweaty yellow skins. They orbited thick chunks of charred chicken and thin slithers of fat ladeled chorizo; a bustling rave presenting itself to a boy who knew not yet of what a rave truly was.

My spoon cracked the transparent veil of charred ceiling that accumulated atop of their pleas to be munched. It was clear an hour in the coal fired oven served to raise their spirits instead of killing them off. And I was ready to dictate their party, spooning crowds of the devilish little'uns with their chicken and chorizo friends.

When they found the bumps of my tongue, succumbing to the rough force of my discoloured teeth; I was sure heaven burst through the shade providing canopy to hoist me toward that which roasted me. The roasted boy eating the roasted rice.

The rest of my Barcelona stay was merely a shaded image of itself as I gazed at pendulum stone cathedrals, flower painted facades and glass and steel marriages. Their sight was a background for the taste sensation of tacky grains of nutrition whose savoury screams were the soothing cream amidst my tomato tender skin.

From that day, I would watch videos of my treasured paella. Tutorials on how to recreate such euphoria myself, lest I wish to plane hop to the shimmering sandstone city once more. Saffron and paprika and a dash of picante. Rice and chicken and a smothering of tomate.

With each failed attempt came an experience of richer standards, switching long grain to arborio and finally to bomba. Chicken breast to chicken wings and eventually to thighs. The herbs grew refined and the spices became controlled. Amounts of water a pin pointed ratio. Time in the oven not a second out of place.

It was one winters morning. The rain battered this persistently everlasting white splattered surface of my student houses window. The timer rang its rattling tune of high pitched glee, and I disengaged its vibrating mass to open the oven where persistently everlasting white splattered its triple layered screen. A wispy explosion of smoke puffed into my nose not a moment after, smells of sweet spice and salty sense dispersed into every crevice of nostril. My spoon cracked into the transparent veil of charred ceiling that raved in my oven, and the tacky grains of sand found their way onto the bumpy beach of my tongue.

I blinked for just a second, yet flew a thousand miles in that eternity. Sun baked sapphire skies loomed above my sweaty mass of brown hair, a single shaded canopy resting above. My skin gave off heat like a coal fired furnace, the furnace that cooked glee weeping nostalgia.

My body may have resided in an icy student kitchen, but my spirit soared through Barcelona skies.

A return to sun forever at my fingertips.