Aside from the wary reaction I get from people when I tell them I am going to Barcelona for a month, their next reaction is usually to tell me how much of Europe I can see.

“You should fly to the South of France, Portugal, England or Rome.”

“You have so much time to see everything,” they remark.

I am not blind to this fact. I know that a month-long vacation presents a unique opportunity to travel around Europe and see each city’s top landmarks.

But my goal isn’t to move from country to country, continuously packing up a modestly sized suitcase and checking off sites like the Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum and Buckingham Palace in a mad frenzy.

As much as I can’t wait to see Sagrada Família, Park Güell, the Temple of Augustus columns and the Joan Miró Museum, there are smaller moments outside of the rich cultural sites and fine dining that I am equally eager to experience.

And in those moments, the difference between seeing a place and feeling a place becomes undeniably clear.

While I cannot predict what any day in Barcelona — or even outside of Barcelona — will hold, I imagine that a week or so into my stay, an ordinary Tuesday might unfold like this:

I wake up a little later than usual and slowly make my way out of bed. I head toward the kitchen to warm up a croissant, cut some fruit and pour myself a glass of iced tea that I will have made a few days prior using black tea bags and patience.

With my breakfast and book in tow, I make my way to the balcony and sit down at what appears to be the exact same small wooden IKEA table and chair set I own at home, enjoying a tiny taste of normalcy.

I eat my meal, read my book and take in the sights and sounds of my neighborhood starting its day.

Shopkeepers opening metal shutters, people shuffling by with empty canvas totes, presumably heading to the market, and mopeds cruising through the alleys.

Afterward, I shower, quickly throwing on a simple T-shirt dress, jewelry and sandals. I grab my crossbody and a small empty tote and head out of my apartment like any resident.

I walk toward Mercat de Santa Caterina with the intention of purchasing a couple of provisions for my apartment — hence the tote.

At the market, I browse stalls of dairy, produce, pastries, cured meats and nuts.

For the first time, the names of the products aren’t completely unfamiliar to me. I semi-confidently identify cheeses and cured meats I like and select a few items to purchase.

Afterward, I make my way to the post office to purchase Tarifa D stamps for postcards to America. There is nothing I love more than sending myself postcards from exotic and not-so-exotic destinations.

From there, I walk to a local bar to enjoy a glass of vermouth — it is noon, after all!

In this small vermuteria, I stand over a wooden barrel, sipping my drink and savoring the sweet taste. I listen to the chatter of fellow patrons, most of which I do not understand.

While the olives are a nice snack, as the clock approaches 1:30 p.m., I suddenly realize it’s time for lunch.

I take a quick look at my Barcelona Hit List and find a nearby restaurant worth trying. I use Google Maps to navigate my way over there, listening to my phone’s directions from inside my purse.

I arrive at the restaurant without a reservation because this was an impromptu visit. Luckily, they have room for one, and I am seated at a table on the terrace, where my book and I settle in for a long lunch.

To begin, I order a drink, a bottle of water and pan con tomate.

Later, I might indulge in some grilled pulpo and patatas bravas while spending some time people-watching. I wonder where everyone is heading and whether they’re locals or first-timers like me.

Before I know it, it’s 3:15 p.m.

I pay the check, resisting the urge to leave an American-sized gratuity — there are some things that are hard to get used to — and head back toward my home base.

I take my time walking, consciously slowing my naturally speedy pace. The route leads me past storefronts with undiscovered treasures and restaurants finishing up lunch service.

The streets begin to get smaller, and soon I am walking through winding alleys. I see the spire of the Barcelona Cathedral in the not-too-far distance and realize I’ve navigated my way back without relying on my phone.

The day concludes much like it began, with time spent on the balcony.

The past five hours may have been filled with mundane tasks like eating breakfast, buying groceries, purchasing stamps and lingering over lunch, but those are moments I am looking forward to.

Not because they are particularly exciting, but because they are ordinary.

And maybe somewhere between recognizing the way home, ordering vermouth without hesitation and carrying groceries back to my apartment, Barcelona will begin to feel a little less like a city I am visiting and a little more like a place I know.