When I arrived back at the street where the squatters had been, everyone was gone, and the decorated habitats felt desolate, like a tornado had blown through, ripping the roofs off the rooms we’d built and carrying away the people. Enzo had managed to hang the swinging wicker chair from a street lamp. I tested to see how much weight it could take, then settled in. I was too tired to walk all the way back to the squat. Slowly, I spun around until I fell asleep.
The sound of the cathedral’s bell woke me, and I counted how many times it rang out. It was 7:00 a.m. on the day I was supposed to get married. A garbage truck was coming down the street.
I started the long trek back to Gràcia, feeling dirty, and wanting to brush my teeth. Walking up Portal de l’Àngel, I could see the tourists lini
