Writing about this place and the experience it gave me feels almost wrong. Though, again, I feel the paradoxical urge, as many writers do, to share my experience.

At the beginning of last year, I moved to Spain for six months. I seized a job teaching English in a public school through a third-party organization, and they placed me in the south of the Comunidad de Madrid.

Prior to this work, I had never left the East Coast of the United States and had spent most of my life in the state of South Carolina. Moving to Spain was a huge deal for me. Once I arrived, I realized how different everything was. Madrid is huge, the largest city in the European Union, and, beforehand, the biggest cities I had ever visited were Washington D.C. and Miami, which do not compare.

City life shook me and shook me and shook me, and I knew I needed an escape. With a group of fellow Americans, I traveled to Tangier, Morocco, for a long weekend, but I needed something else after that. I needed something of my own.

Having earned a bachelor's degree in Classics, the discipline of Latin and Greek and the ancient Greco-Roman world, Tarragona stood out to me after some quick research. Known as Tarraco in ancient times, this city, under Augustus, sat as the capital of Rome's Hispania Tarraconensis province from 27 BCE to the Visigothic conquest of 472 CE. Hispania Tarraconensis spanned over modern northern, eastern, and central Spain and northern Portugal.

The Roman ruins, or rather, remains, in Tarragona prove stunning and underappreciated. From its walls to its amphitheater, its circus to its forum, its aqueduct to its villas, this city has preserved history for the past 2,000 years. Indeed, in 2000, UNESCO declared the archeological ensemble of Tarragona a World Heritage Site.

Day 1: a solitary arrival

To get to the city, I took a OuiGo train from Madrid to Barcelona, getting off at the Tarragona station. This train took me to a station some miles away from the actual city, and me and the rest of the newly arrived stood confused and waited for a bus to take us to the city's central station. This station sat not far from the Airbnb I booked, but I arrived too early and could not check in yet. So, I wandered, with my heavy bag on my back, to the Airbnb to ensure I could find it and then found a kebab shop to enjoy some classic doner and a soda. Afterwards, I was surprised to find the Roman theater, not to be confused with the amphitheater, right at the end of the street. The theater, with its prison-like fences and bird feces, proved underwhelming, especially considering it was the first real piece of Roman architecture I'd seen.

By this time, the Airbnb was ready, and I could check in. Nervous, as this was my first time solo traveling (unless you'd consider moving to Spain a big solo trip), I did not know what to expect. However, almost immediately, my gracious host made me comfortable and carefree. My room was spacious, more so than my room in Madrid, and I decided to take a siesta after a long night and morning of buses and trains.

After waking, my host was either gone or in her room, so I quietly left and decided to wander around the city. Having grown up on the coast, the ocean played an important part in my life; however, I never realized this importance until I moved to Madrid, far from any major source of water. Seeing the Mediterranean, despite just seeing it in Tangier a month before, grabbed and hugged my soul. The salt air, the slight breeze, and the sound of waves all brought goosebumps to my skin, and I knew this trip would be great.

As I continued to walk and explore, the cobblestone streets unfolded before me until the amphitheater stopped me. My heart jumped to my throat and I smiled with a childishness not common in me. About 50 meters away, from the corner of an elevated street, I stood staring at the ancient yellowish stones. And the amphitheater, much more magnificent than the simple and underkept theater, stared back. I had never seen anything so beautiful. To think of all the years it has remained there almost brought tears to my eye.

By this time in the evening, the gates to the amphitheater had closed. The next day, though, I visited it and walked on its sand and in its side rooms and read of its history. All the while, the blue Mediterranean waves beat softly upon the shoreline behind it.

During my first afternoon, after my siesta, I walked most of the city. Before my eyes rested upon the amphitheater, I walked the Rambla Nova with its shops and restaurants. The circus sits across the street once known as the Via Augusta. Later, I walked by the shore and eventually led myself to the Roman walls, huge and looming, with stones bigger than small cars. Much like the amphitheater, the circus and walls were closed for the evening. Rain started to fall, but I did not fret; in fact, I remember pulling out my umbrella and smiling. I had never felt so free. After studying Classics for four years in university and dreaming of traveling abroad since I was a child, I found myself exactly where I wanted to be.

Day 2: inside the ruins

The next day, I woke to find my host in the kitchen making coffee. This was the second time we had interacted, and she could not have been more accommodating. She made me a cup of coffee too, which I drank black, as I do in the United States, despite still acquiring a taste for the strength of European brews.

We discussed the city and Catalonian culture and language. This led to us realizing we were both English teachers, which further solidified my comfort there. I told her my daily itinerary and she gave me pointers, which I especially needed if I wanted to find the aqueduct. I first explored the insides of the amphitheater and circus. And the entry tickets, to my surprise, were free because of Semana Santa.

Later, I took a bus outside the city to the aqueduct, also known as the Pont del Diable. The bridge, believed to have been built during the time of Augustus, took water from the Francolí river and supplied it to ancient Tarraco. It spans over 200 meters and has two levels of arches. I walked atop it, as it did not have any water running through it, and looked around at the forest it sat within.

After relishing my moments here, I waited for the next bus to take me back to the city. At a small market, I got some bananas and coconut water and walked to the Roman walls. Now, I could see the inside, observing its megalithic structure and noticing the non-Roman, Medieval additions and restorations. Built approximately two centuries before Augustus, the remains of the wall span over 1000 meters and borders the Old Quarter of the city. Its size is magnificent.

I then wandered. The cathedral does not sit far from the walls, so I explored it for some time. Its blend of the Romanesque and the Gothic encapsulated me as I walked through its halls, sat on its benches, and listened to its echoing organ.

At the end of that day, I strolled back to my Airbnb to rest. For dinner, I enjoyed a pizza and two strong beers at an empty restaurant nearby as the only worker focused on the televised football game.

Day 3: a villa, a train ride, and some liver

My third day, though only my second full day, had arrived. The day before, I had already planned to see the Villa del Munts in a neighboring town. This villa, also part of the archeological ensemble recognized by UNESCO, sits in the small and cozy town of Altafulla. After a short and crowded ride on a Renfe train, I arrived and immediately noticed something different about it. I walked about a mile to get to the villa and kept wondering what made this place different. Then it hit me: the houses. I was walking by houses. Big, grand, beautiful houses, similar to those I see in the coastal towns of the United States, unfolded on each street. Apartments, which were the only form of housing I had really seen in Spain so far, were nowhere to be found. It felt like I was walking through a neighborhood in Miami.

When I found the villa, or what remained of it, I was quite surprised by how underwhelming it seemed. Barely anything remained. The lowest levels of the walls, their borders, outlined where the grand villa once stood. A wooden walkway, slightly elevated, guided tourists through this open-air attraction. Plaques in Spanish and Catalan describe each of the rooms and their uses. The garden and the kitchen and temple, with their remnants barely distinguishable, composed most of the site. Yet, I found it all beautiful.

Classicists believe that the villa belonged to a wealthy magistrate from the second century. They gathered this information from a mural on the property.

Despite the villa and all its grandeur, I found the best part of it across the street in the sea. The remains of its ancient baths, originally connected to the villa and crossing the Via Augusta, lie within the Mediterranean. Waves crashed against the old, yellowish stones, which once bathed wealthy Romans. The sun beat with brilliance and made the water shimmer, and I sat upon the ancient staircase to rest and ponder what used to be.

After some time, I decided to explore some more of this town before I had to head back. I found a path between some houses that led to the beach. A restaurant and an outdoor gym met me at the end of the path. But the restaurant was not yet open, so I kept wandering. A smooth-brick walkway with a knee-high stone wall followed the shoreline. Along it, restaurants and shops were either closing or opening. After such a long day, I developed a thirst and found a nice place to sit outside and drink a beer. I rolled a cigarette and looked at the sea. I journaled here as I finished my beer, paid, and then made my way back to the train stop, helping tourists take pictures together along the way.

That evening, as I walked back to my Airbnb, a procession for Semana Santa crossed my path. Considering my Airbnb sat right in front of a church, I scurried up the staircase to watch from the balcony. Here, I found my host and her boyfriend, whom I had not met yet. He showed me as much generosity and hospitality as she did. While Catalonia is not the most religious and traditional region, as opposed to Andalucia, we still enjoyed the procession with its drums and horns and models of biblical scenes.

After some time outside, my hosts started to cook and asked me to stay to eat with them (which is not something most Airbnb hosts offer). Delighted by this chance to mingle with locals and pick their brains about Spain and culture and everything, I said yes. We ate a simple and delicious dinner of liver, salad, and bread and washed it all down with beer.

I talked with them about languages and music, considering one was an English teacher and the other a music teacher. We stayed up late and I realized that I had just had the best conversation since I had been in Spain. With a contentedness about the world and a nice warm feeling from the beer, I crawled into my bed and rested before my final day in Tarragona.

Day 3: a farewell and aimless wandering

I packed my bag that morning, had a coffee with my host, exchanged contact information, and said my goodbyes. Having some hours before my train ride back to Madrid, I just planned on seeing where the wind would take me. Needing something to eat, I walked to a square I had eaten at just the other day and ate a large plate of eggs and peppers and sausages. Journaling and looking over my original itinerary, I realized I had forgotten to find the Roman forum, despite walking the whole city two or three times by now. Looking up pictures of it, I realized, comically, that I was sitting in it at that very moment. I smiled and probably let out a small laugh and continued to eat. A small family speaking German sat at the table near me.

Considering I did not do much else that day, I will keep this section short. I wandered on the beach and watched the waves. The sun beat against my chest as I laid out and hoped to catch a tan.

By the end of the day, I found myself in the same train station at which this trip had started. The sun had set, and I cozied myself into a seat to look over the pictures I had captured, sending some to my friends and family back home.

There are, of course, some things that I did not mention. Some things are too personal, too close to my heart to share. Like the letters from a loved one, you'd rather burn them than let others peer into them. Some things just aren't meant to be shared; they feel better wrapped up inside you, perfect, just how you remember them.

And, of course, other things I could not mention because I simply couldn't. I think Anthony Bourdain captured this common frustration among writers when he said, "It's an irritating reality that many places and events defy description... In the end, you're just happy you were there - with your eyes open - and lived to see it." And I am.