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I quickly learned that a twenty-something in the hottest Mediterranean city in no way has to be committed to just one person. I figured out how to juggle my novios just right: one for a pulpo a la gallega dinner on Monday; one for flamenco at Tablao on Tuesday; one to go to the fiesta de Gracia with, and one with whom I arrive at Otto Zutz, but not necessarily leave with.
It certainly felt pretty good to be whistled after on a Sunday when the American in me was cruising the streets of Poblenou in basketball shorts, a ponytail and nerdy glasses. Truth is that Barcelona has a large population of beautiful people, and the more I went out, the more of these mortal gods I met.
At times I wondered how it could be that easy. Because chick flicks led me to believe that it was he who had to make the first move while I stood in the corner, trying to come off as pretty and timid. I learned that if I want something, I have to go and get it. Care to dance?
Barcelona taught me that confidence is sexy as hell, and the more I exhibit it, the more men are attracted to me. I used to put a great deal of effort into pampering boys. Ciao to that! I figured that after years of putting together care baskets of wine and Lindt truffles for my sick boyfriends, shopping for monogrammed wallets or bringing them Soviet Union souvenirs from Russia, it was time for them to spoil me.
I let my Spanish beau choose our restaurant for dinner, take me hiking up in Montjuic, buy me a Damm at Bar Manolo in El Raval and end the night with my favorite brand of cava at Nova Icaria.