It was Sue’s idea to go to Barcelona.
“I want colour,” she said, “and chaos.”
She got both.
The city hit us like a Mingus bassline—unexpected, generous, and a little off-balance in the best way. Streets curled and doubled back on themselves like they’d been planned by a drunk surrealist. I got lost four times in one day. Once inside the same square.
Sue loved it. I loved it. Eventually. But I’ll be honest: for the first forty-eight hours, I felt like I was being thrown into a jam session where I didn’t know the key, the tempo, or whether I was supposed to solo or just sit quietly and nod along.
And that’s when I thought of Bird.
Charlie Parker once said, “Music is your own experience, your thoughts, your wisdom. If you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn.”
I wasn’t living it. I was just… observing it, like a pensioner at a techno rave. So I decided to stop standing at the edge. I enrolled in a Spanish course. No fuss, no big plan—just walked in off the street and said, “Teach me something. Anything. I’m tired of pointing at menus.”
And for once, I didn’t go cheap or flaky. I picked a proper school with rhythm, structure, and a human touch—Spanish courses in Barcelona, Spain that didn’t feel like sitting through GCSEs with a hangover. They taught with energy. Like they wanted you to get it. It felt more like jazz than school: conversation, improvisation, connection.
Sue laughed when I told her.
“You? In a classroom? With homework?”
“Bird practiced twelve hours a day,” I said. “I can manage a few flashcards.”
The truth is, learning a new language at my age feels a bit like trying to scat-sing with your shoelaces tied together. You know what you’re trying to say, but it comes out sideways, upside-down, and occasionally with accidental obscenities.
But that’s part of the charm, isn’t it? You can’t be cool and learn at the same time. You have to be willing to look daft. To lose the beat and find it again. To get gloriously, joyfully lost.
Barcelona reminded me that getting lost is half the point.
So I let myself wander. Through back alleys and verb tenses. Through Mercat de Sant Antoni and subjunctive moods. Through half-finished conversations with taxi drivers and long afternoons at cafés where the waitress corrected my grammar with a smirk.
And somewhere in the middle of all that… I started to feel like I was playing again. Not just listening. Playing.
We stayed an extra week. I kept going to class. Sue bought a scarf that still smells like cinnamon and city dust.
I still can’t roll my R’s properly. But I can order a cortado with confidence and ask someone—without panic—where the nearest jazz bar is. That’s something, right?
Bird would’ve nodded. I think he’d have understood.
