I arrived in Barcelona
with the spirit of a seed,
ready to sprout.
Unfamiliar soil beneath my feet,
sunlight slanting through Gaudí’s tiled streets.
The city moved slowly,
it had nothing to prove.
Yet back home,
the people that make Glasgow
speed the M74 with their
fumes and urgency.
Engines growling louder
than the chirps of morning birds.
Concrete veins choke
on commuter breath,
while cycle lanes wait
like promises unkept.
The absence of adequate public transport
turns Glasgow’s streets into rivers of cars.
Each driver bearing the weight
of missed connections,
of trains that never came,
of bus fares too high to justify the ride.
Here, in El Born, the bikes outnumber the cars.
La gente rollerblade to work,
weaving through cobbled streets with woven bags
and sunflower helmets,
as if the morning commute
were something joyful.
In Barceloneta, mornings are quiet
except for the clink of glass bottles
sorted into their coloured cages.
Before dawn, ghosts in high vis,
swept the remnants of last night’s noise.
Tending to waste
like gardeners of the modern city,
keeping the green spaces green,
so parks could wake with dew,
instead of debris.
Meanwhile, in Scotland,
our lochs are littered
and cans nestled in reeds.
We walk past it like dull weather,
shrugging at what we’ve learned
not to see.
It’s normal now,
to rest chip boxes on benches,
to leave bottles beneath bus stops,
as if bins were myths,
as if the earth were hungry
for our plastic offerings.
In Barcelona,
la ciudad breathes with intention.
Rooftop gardens sing,
and balconies bloom with basil and bougainvillea.
Trees planted not as decoration
but as lungs.
Superblocks hush the roads,
where children play
and abuelos wheel home oranges,
through spaces once conquered by traffic.
Public areas belongs
to the walker, the cyclist,
the one with time to pause
for fresas at the market stalls.
The metro hums,
a lifeline beneath the surface,
clean and on time.
Running like a shared heartbeat
under streets designed
for more than just survival.
Here, la moda is practical.
Clothes are worn again with pride,
passed down, repaired, not cast aside.
On streets where Zara’s bright lights gleam,
local boutiques still hold their timeless dream
family-run, with love they stay,
keeping Catalan culture alive and on display.
I will admit,
I wasn’t perfect.
Sometimes I caved
to fast fashion,
to long showers,
to cheap flights taken, al fin de semana.
But change never blooms
all at once.
Barcelona showed me
how to nurture this needed change
like a small garden,
fragile and delicate,
but worth guarding with care,
until it grows beyond the storm.
Now I walk differently,
reusing my bottles
and placing my waste where it belongs.
I hold faith that these small acts
can protect our precious earth
and all it has to give.
Because once,
a city cracked me open
and let something green grow inside.
