When I was born in 1958, the world was almost unrecognizably different. There was no internet, no cell phones, no personal computers. Even color television was still a luxury we didn’t have. Heck, we didn’t have a television at all until I was sixteen years old. And we had no electric heat, only a huge round coal stove in the middle of our three-room house for the five of us. The first Boeing 707 jets were just beginning commercial service, transforming air travel from something rare and exotic to merely expensive. NASA had just been established that year, and the first U.S. satellite, Explorer 1, had only recently made it to orbit. The microchip had just been invented but wouldn’t be patented until the following year.

The Cold War dominated global politics—the year of my birth saw Khrushchev become Soviet Premier and the start of the Berlin Crisis. Elvis was drafted into the Army. The hula hoop was the hot new toy. Looking back, it feels like I was born in an entirely different epoch, a time so distant it might as well be centuries ago rather than decades.

Now at 67, I notice my body tells its own story of those passing decades. My skin has grown thinner, more crinkly—a map of experiences etched into this vessel I inhabit. I tire sooner than I once did, though living in Barcelona may provide some context for that. Here, we walk everywhere, logging 7-10,000 steps daily through winding streets and up gentle hillsides. For the first time since I was 14, I don’t own a car. Haven’t been behind the wheel in 16 months. Surprisingly, I don’t miss driving at all.

This car-free European lifestyle has transformed my physical health. The lifelong battle with my stomach weight seems to be resolving itself naturally here. My body is responding to this more human-scaled existence with a grace I couldn’t have anticipated.

But the most profound changes aren’t physical at all. Since renouncing religion, I’ve experienced a dramatic decrease in fear and anguish. The peace that has replaced that constant background anxiety is nothing short of miraculous. I sleep well now and keep a dream journal that has revealed patterns and insights I never would have discovered otherwise.

At 67, I am grateful every day that my sexuality remains vibrant. That drive is still strong and beautiful—a force for connection and joy rather than shame. Living as a European, specifically as a Barcelonan, has opened pathways to sensuality that simply weren’t available in America. The culture here acknowledges pleasure as a natural part of human existence rather than something to be controlled and hidden.

I’ve rediscovered reading for pure pleasure. Uncensored books of all kinds—from Pulitzer Prize winners to explicitly erotic literature—have expanded my understanding of human experience. Writing my first novel has been an extraordinary journey of self-discovery. The drive to create meaningful artifacts—books, art, writing—remains as powerful as ever.

My running routine continues three times weekly, as it has for fifty years. That consistency grounds me, connecting present-day self to the young man I once was. What’s changed is my willingness to openly acknowledge my sensuality, curiosity, need for communion, and freedom. I’ve come to realize no single person can meet all my needs, and my partner Gina graciously understands this complexity in me.

I’m no longer afraid of my emotions—neither the healthy ones nor the unhealthy. The Spanish people, with their remarkable peacefulness and joy, have taught me equanimity. I’ve grown to understand that my gender is far more fluid than American culture programmed me to believe. Though I’m cisgender male, I now celebrate the female aspects and longings within me without shame or confusion.

The perspective of sixty-seven years reveals how much of what I once considered fixed and immutable—technology, culture, sexuality, even my own identity—is actually in constant evolution. From the world of 1958 to the present day, everything transforms. Including me. Perhaps especially me.