Bloodstains in Barcelona

Hearing of an attack on a city with a familiar name is distressing: Boston, New York, London, Manchester, Brussels, etc. But it's a disconnected kind of sorrow; the fury of a paper fire-- fed into flame by passionate social media bursts but then floating away in forgotten ashes as the news moves on to other topics. A day or so after the initial incident, it's just a conversation topic, addressed in half-hearted and incomplete updates or ignored until mentioned by a celebrity.

But Barcelona: It's different when it comes to streets I've walked. Metro stops I've taken. The cities I've lived in and visited, inhabited with people I know and care for. Barcelona is sacred ground for me. I know the pattern on the sidewalks.
I can imagine what they look like with bloodstains.

Las Ramblas is always packed with tourists. I remember being a tourist there. It is an embodiment of life and color-- packed with people, filled with food, cluttered with keepsakes and souvenirs, and stuffed with shopping of every pay-scale. It's a pedestrian paradise, with street performers and pigeons taking residence among fountains and statues in the circle flanked by banks and museums. It is culture, it is the intersection of worlds, it is Spain.

And now, it will always be somewhat tainted with tragedy.  

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/aug/18/terror-timeline-of-barcelona-and-cambrils-attacks-and-other-terror-raids

The second car, the "getaway" car was found in Vic? That was my last area. A tiny town of pure Catalan culture, close enough to Barcelona to make it a popular spot for preparation day. I remember the train, door-less, sometimes standing-room-only, as we cheaply chugged our way to/from Barcelona 

"The remaining suspects are thought to live in or close to the Catalonian town of Ripoll."
Ripoll? That's where Vic's Branch President lives. We were up there every week for an eating cita. It's a beautiful, out-of-the-way little place. And it's tiny.

I found out just an hour after the attack. I was on Facebook, reading what I could find, learning as much as I possible, becoming the local informational authority. I went to to gym with mom and watched it roll out on the news (the gym is actually the only place I really watch the news, other than the CNN 10). I found a Spanish flag overlay and applied it to my profile picture. I shared a link. I was the first of my friends to do so.
And I waited.
I knew it was bad, I knew it should hurt. 
I waited for the pain. 
And it came. 
I knew that people would be thinking of me, wondering how I was handling it. As they reached out, I assured them I was fine.
Fine= Fully Incapable of Normal Emotions

The pain came in strange moments. First, as my sister said a hurried prayer over our food I interrupted and asked her to bless the people in Spain and it suddenly struck me as real. Again as I saw the community response and outreach, making the best of a bad situation.
As I scrolled Facebook after the Barcelona attack, I saw a friend post that she was vacationing in a Spanish town I'd never heard of, called "Cambrils." I woke up the next morning to find that they'd attacked there, too. And the painful connections kept coming; an old companion posted a frantic call for any information on a family member, Jared Alton. Her aunt and uncle were there the day of the Barcelona attack, and got separated. After a while, the posts stopped. Buried away in the comment section of the post a few days later, I found out that his name was posted in the news as "deceased." I felt it in a song we sang in church on Sunday (Hark, All Ye Nations), which is one that always comes to mind in Spanish first. Another hymn chosen for the meeting (Master, the Tempest Is Raging) was sung more often in my heart than with my voice during the hard times of my mission. Finally, I feel the affects of being "fine" in my unrelated but agitated dreams, as I uncharacteristically yell, fists-clenched and red-faced, at the people I love for ridiculous reasons such as not going to bed on time or for moving my clothes.

I was able to talk with one of my favorite people from Barcelona yesterday. I felt the need to connect with someone from there again and, as it turns out, she needed to talk to me, too. We didn't mention the terrorist attacks, we just... talked. And it was a wonderful, healing moment. 

I don't think I have a traditional way of handling, feeling, or even recognizing grief (exhibit A), but I'm becoming more familiar with my way. I'm remembering to be patient with myself, to push off the guilt for what I don't immediately feel, and to rely on strength and understanding beyond my own. Barcelona will always have mixed emotions in my memories, and that's ok.

And I'm ok.