There’s something magical about waking up in the heart of the Gothic Quarter. The sun slips in through my balcony shutters, painting golden stripes on the old tiled floor. The city hasn’t quite woken up yet — just the distant rumble of a delivery truck and the soft sweep of a street cleaner brushing last night’s stories away. For me, mornings are sacred. They are the one part of the day I keep completely to myself.
I live on the second floor of a building that’s probably older than my great-grandparents. My tiny balcony overlooks a narrow cobbled alley, framed by faded stone facades and wrought iron. From here, I can watch the baker downstairs preparing croissants, and hear the rustle of newspapers at the little kiosk on the corner. It’s a quiet kind of theatre, and I watch with a sleepy smile as Barcelona slowly stretches and yawns into the new day.
My morning ritual is simple but deeply grounding. I take my time. No rushing. No alarms. Just intuition. I slip into my soft robe, wash my face with cold water — I swear it wakes up my soul — and prepare a quick stretch on the balcony while breathing in the cool morning air. Sometimes I’ll sit cross-legged with my eyes closed and just listen: pigeons fluttering, a distant guitar, a dog barking, a sleepy “buenos días” exchanged between neighbors.
Then, it’s coffee time.
There are dozens of cafés within a five-minute walk from me, but I always end up at the same one — Café Milagro, a little gem tucked into a quiet side street. The owner, Nico, knows exactly how I like my cortado: strong, short, and no sugar. I sit at the same table, next to the window, where sunlight pools in the morning and warms my hands as I wrap them around the cup.
There’s a peace in that moment that I can’t quite put into words — only that it feels like a gentle exhale after holding your breath. I usually bring my journal with me and write stream-of-consciousness style. No rules, no pressure. Sometimes it’s dreams I had the night before. Sometimes it’s poetry. Sometimes it’s just a list of things I’m grateful for, like the way the barista always gives me an extra biscuit or how the morning light makes everything feel a little softer, a little kinder.
From there, I might take a little wander. The beauty of the Gothic Quarter is that it’s full of secrets. Tiny bookshops that smell of old paper and ink. Hidden courtyards with fountains and orange trees. Art galleries you’d never find unless you got lost — which I often do, on purpose. It’s one of my favorite luxuries: getting lost in my own city.
I walk with no destination in mind. Just me, my music (usually something slow and soulful — think Cigarettes After Sex or old Sade), and the city. I always end up discovering something new: a painted door I hadn’t noticed before, a cat lounging on a windowsill, a new café to try on a rainy day.
By the time the tourists start filling the streets and the sun climbs higher into the sky, I’ve already filled my cup in more ways than one. I return home with a fresh baguette, maybe some fruit from La Boqueria, and an inner calm that carries me through the rest of the day.
I know my lifestyle may seem unconventional to some. But for me, it’s not about what I do — it’s about how I feel. And mornings like these, wrapped in warmth, silence, and slow beauty, are what keep me grounded. They remind me of who I am beneath the noise, beneath the labels.
A girl. A woman. A soul. Living slowly. Loving deeply. Breathing fully.
Barcelona has given me many things — but most of all, it’s given me mornings like this.