Getting a tattoo was something I had wanted to do for a long time. Between the list in my
notes app and the minuscule stick ‘n’ poke I gave myself at age 15, I figured my semester
abroad was high time to get one. After planning a weekend over to Spain, most of us decided to
go to a shop in Barcelona that specialized in small tattoos, and accepted walk-in appointments,
a fantastic combination. After navigating the metro rather successfully -a talent I honed one Saturday in Boston- we arrived at the shop and began the process.
I went second, and the anxiety was beginning to build up in my stomach. The friend who
went before me was tattooed right near the bone and tendon, an incredibly sensitive place for
needles to jab into, and watching her reaction to it made me wonder if mine would hurt the
same. Thankfully, I had picked an easier placement, on the lower half of my upper arm, just
above the elbow. The thicker skin and layers of fat and muscle would help negate pain, and the
artist assured me in somewhat halted English that it was one of the best places to get a first
tattoo. He placed the stencil, and we were ready to go.
The buzz of the needle went straight to my heart, and I briefly wondered if that would be
a problem, but pushed the thought aside. He started the tattoo, and I felt myself rather
paradoxically begin to relax. The needle made its way through the outline and script, and I
passed the time listening to Pearl Jam on the shop radio for conversing with the artist in a
half-Spanish, half-English mix of words. I came out of the room beaming, ready to get another
and another, but thankfully my wallet reminded me just why I had gotten a small one to begin
with. Leaving the shop with my friends, we headed off to see where the night would take us
next.