The guidebook says the heart of Barcelona is Las Ramblas and El Barrio Gotico. To save on the cost of a taxi, you take the metro from the hotel. It’s the middle of August and all the hot air trapped in the tunnels makes it feel like the inside of a sauna; a leaky faucet drips on the burning coals producing nothing but waves of steam. To take your mind off the heat, you stare at the digital clock hanging from the low ceiling. Proper Tren 3:04, it says. From the little Spanish you know, “proximo” is the word for “next” and “propio” is “own”. Intrigued by this linguistic puzzle, you decide that this train must be a “proper,” or real train, which stops at all the stations, as opposed to an express service like in your home town of New York City. It’s a perfectly logical theory.

On the opposite platform sits a dark Spanish girl in a loose white dress on a metal bench. Even from this distance, she has a relaxed and natural beauty, making her far prettier than the model on the poster next to her. Trying unsuccessfully not to stare, you wonder if there might be a romantic liaison on this vacation and imagine chatting up such a gorgeous woman. The girl makes eye contact and holds it a second, giving the possibility a slight hope. A sleek train approaches with a gust of wind that dries the sweat beading on your forehead. It squeals to a stop and blocks the view.The doors beep open and close. The train rumbles to a start and leaves. The platform is empty; the girl is gone....