Tristan Vol. 4 Chapter 2 with Audiobook

By: Asa Montreaux (Andrew Mccarthy)

The morning air in Paris was crisp, the sky a pale blue streaked with wisps of white. I slung my camera bag over my shoulder, kissed Maisie softly on the cheek, and grabbed my overnight bag.

"Tu es sûr que tu as tout?" she asked, her voice warm with concern.

"Oui," I said, smiling. "Everything."

She followed me to the door, leaning against the frame as I checked my pockets.

"Barcelona," she mused. "I wish I could come."

"Soon," I promised. "This trip is just a few days. I’ll be back before you miss me."

"Impossible," she teased, pulling me in for a final kiss.

With that, I was off, weaving my way through the streets toward the Gare de Lyon, where my train was waiting. My itinerary was tight—two days in Madrid, a stop in Valencia, then finally to Barcelona, where I’d be photographing the city’s vibrant streets, its sharp modernist angles and worn medieval alleys. My next showing at the gallery in Paris was less than a month away, and these images would be the highlight.

The train hummed beneath me as we slipped into the countryside, France rolling past my window in waves of green and gold. I flipped through my camera, reviewing shots from my last trip—hazy lavender fields in Provence, mist curling over the cliffs in Normandy, the quiet dignity of Mont Saint-Michel. Each image held a story, a frozen moment in time, yet something about Spain felt different already—more alive, more electric.

Madrid welcomed me with its dry heat, the streets pulsing with movement. My first stop was the Gran Vía, the city’s main artery, where the old and the new clashed in beautiful, chaotic harmony. The streets were alive with music, with laughter spilling from cafés, with the scent of fresh churros mingling with the warm air. I pulled my camera free, adjusting the lens, and snapped my first shot: a couple sitting on the stone steps of a fountain, lost in conversation, their fingers brushing but never fully touching. The space between them told the real story.

By the time evening arrived, I had filled nearly half a memory card—flamenco dancers in a dimly lit bar, their shadows flickering against cracked walls; an old man reading a book under a streetlamp, its light casting long, delicate lines across his face.

The next morning, I boarded a train to Valencia. The city greeted me with palm trees swaying in the Mediterranean breeze. It was slower than Madrid, more languid, as if time stretched differently here. The sun hung heavy in the sky as I wandered through the City of Arts and Sciences, its futuristic structures gleaming under the afternoon light. I spent hours playing with reflections in the shallow waters, capturing the way the buildings seemed to fold into themselves, a mirror of the sky above.

Later, I found myself on the beach, the sand warm beneath my feet. I watched as children darted in and out of the waves, their laughter ringing across the shore. I raised my camera and captured the pure joy on their faces, their movements blurred by the setting sun. These were the moments I lived for—fleeting, unguarded, impossibly real.

As night fell, I boarded the last train to Barcelona. I dozed in and out of sleep, the rhythmic clatter of the rails lulling me into a dreamlike state. When I woke, the city was there, sprawling and alive, waiting for me.

Barcelona was different. It was wild, unpredictable, intoxicating. The streets twisted in ways that made no sense but felt entirely right. Gaudí’s fingerprints were everywhere—his buildings curved like living things, as if they had grown from the very earth itself. I spent my first morning wandering through the Gothic Quarter, its narrow alleys casting deep shadows that begged to be captured. I let my feet carry me where they wanted, stopping only when something caught my eye: a woman hanging laundry from a balcony, the fabric billowing like sails; a street performer with a face painted white, frozen in a silent scream; the golden glow of the Sagrada Familia as the sun kissed its stone façade.

I visited La Boqueria, the famous market where color and life exploded in every direction. Stalls overflowed with ripe fruit, with fresh seafood, with spices that perfumed the air. I snapped photo after photo, capturing the vibrancy, the sheer excess of it all.

At night, I wandered along Barceloneta Beach, the Mediterranean stretching out before me like an endless promise. The city’s lights flickered against the water, and for a moment, I let myself just be. No camera, no frame, no composition—just the sound of the waves, the feeling of the warm night air against my skin.

But the moment passed, and I reached for my camera once more. The gallery was waiting. The world was waiting. And I had stories to tell.