Barcelona

Witty, earthy, dirty, impeccable. Unflinching, velvet fingers, elegant hands and at home anywhere. Open eyed, generous soul, shocking stories, able to rock an infant to sleep and dispatch unwanted advances with ease. That's me.

You should be: the same but with legs that walk for miles and are at least six inches longer than mine.

The scene. Barcelona in Park Guell, looking up towards Tibidabo, sunset after dinner in a delicious hole in the wall down by the Ramblas. We'll listen to flamenco and get tipsy on an old wine from Riojas. Leave the joint with half a bottle between us, heat burning up our calves from the sidewalk and wander through the Gothic Quarter in silence, sometimes stopping to sing or laugh or whisper a poem and point at all the people in love.