Here, in the inner docks of A Coruña, small weeds and mosses grow between the pavement, the old rail tracks or the façades of the abandoned warehouses. This space is set for redevelopment in the upcoming years, as the city redesigns its waterfront. Two cement silos and a few storage buildings remain as relics of what this port once was: a hub for emigration, timber, petroleum, glass.

I walk to the end of the pier, taking pictures of the occasional plants. Sometimes, a cruise ship moors here and the access is cut. But not today. To my left, I can see the glass façades of the Marina, which give the city its name as the 'City of Glass'. Straight ahead, on the other side of the estuary, I see hills, cliffs, and beaches. To my right, traces of the industrial dock are still in operation. Below my feet, the sea sways. I wonder what will happen when this part of the city is redrawn. Will the plants stay? Will I be able to come here? The news says that public spaces will be prominent in the redevelopment of the area. For now, it remains in between.

Walking east out of the city, along the train tracks by the sea, the journey leads to Oza, located at one of the corners of A Coruña. Once an independent municipality, in the 1950s it was absorbed by the city's expanding reach. With just over a square kilometer of land, it feels almost hemmed in by a highway and the train tracks coming from to the freight station, soon to be dismantled as the city's industrial port is moved out of the city center.

To get there on foot, I follow the train tracks and pass beneath the massive highway, walking by an abandoned shipyard, sealed off since 2016 —a quiet reminder of the city's evolving economy. I notice the different plants that have claimed the gaps between the tracks and the sidewalk. A large parking lot marks the entrance to the neighborhood, where locals park their cars before heading down the green path that leads to the beach, the port, or the university campus perched on the hillside. In the distance, a small 12th-century chapel and the tip of a 1915 lighthouse stand quietly, overseeing the harbor."

At the end of Riazor Beach, a wide esplanade stretches out, openly facing the Atlantic Ocean. It marks the boundary between the city's main urban beaches and the start of the final stretch of the seaside walk of the city to the West. One of those liminal spaces between the city and the ocean. The concrete slabs of the pavement gradually give way to the rocks that descend toward the ocean, while small plants —perhaps more influenced by the closeness of the sea— emerge from the crevices, becoming more abundant the closer they are to the rocks.

Here, I mostly come to read, write, or people-watch. Others come as well to play, read, listen to music, practice sports, gaze at the sea, have dates, or fish —each one carving out their own space in the public realm of the city.

Here, little plants grow along the sides and between the steps of a narrow stairway on Ferro Street, which connects the Falperra neighborhood with Juan Flórez Avenue—one of the city's main economic and commercial arteries. Falperra, the neighborhood where I live, is a working-class area, built on steep streets in the mid-20th century. Its winding roads, shaped by the hilly terrain, are poorly maintained, with broken sidewalks and a shortage of public spaces in the neighborhood.

A few feet away from this stairway lie the escalators of Maestro Clavé, a better-maintained street that also descends to Juan Flórez. This well-conditioned street has carefully tended flowers, with public signs asking not to touch them.

A Coruña is not for sale, reads the graffiti on the metal fences under which some of these plants grow. These fences work to close up several vacant plots that, since the XIX century and until very recently, belonged to the Spanish Ministry of Defense. After several failed auctions to sell the lands for residential development and an attempt by the local government to acquire the land for public use, a Basque construction company purchased it six years ago with plans to build over 150 housing units, some of which will be social housing.

For years, neighbors from the area have organized through the Comisión en Defensa do Común (Commission for the Defense of the Commons). They ask to have the land returned for community purposes, with the aim to preserve the open views to the ocean and create a large archaeological park.

Walking through the Old Town of A Coruña. The breeze is strong, salty. A reminder that the sea is close, even if I can't see it from here. The cobblestones are uneven, worn. Some parts of the street feel quiet, in a way that doesn't fit the rest of the city. There's less activity. It's slower here, but it's not dead. Small operational businesses are mixed with historical buildings and abandoned ones. I recently read that there are many building renovations going on, and that the neighborhood is undergoing a process of gentrification.

There usually aren't many tourists here. They all seem to be at the bars and restaurants by the marina. Some people leave a nearby church. I go on and sit on the bench of my favorite square. I see small patches of moss growing between the cobblestones. Last night, it rained -it always rains here-. The leaves of the Palomilla de Muro that grows on the walls of the church still have some raindrops on them.