According to Apple Maps, I’m 100 feet away from my hotel. My taxi driver refuses to drop me off any closer—"Too narrow," he says, shaking his head and pointing to the street ahead, where tourists and locals alike linger, cigarettes in hand.

"Fine," I say. No hay problema. I tumble onto the street with my suitcase, packed with two weeks’ worth of clothing, and the taxi peels away, a yellow afterthought between narrow buildings. As I make my way up the street, glancing not-so-subtly between Maps and the street numbers to my right, I hear, in no particular order: Spanish. French. German. English, both American and British. Catalán.

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