Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - fogged in

Fog looks good on Venice. I took a boat trip through the Grand Canal to get a better look at this peeling, blackened, decaying city. As we glided past steps covered in algae that disappear into oily waters, I tell myself I am in a city that was old in Shakespeare’s time and never have to convince myself that what I say is true. Docks are rotting and sinking as the lagoon waters rise. Or maybe it’s because the land is sinking. Either way, Venice is slowly becoming one with the sea and no one can stop it. Fatality. Destiny. I find these concepts oddly comforting.

The loss of a coastline seems such a dramatically unimaginable thing. More than the filling in of a lake, the leveling of a mountain, the loss of fields turned into cities. Maybe it’s because of our map heritage. Coastlines defined first, then interiors. The loss of a coastline is the loss of definition. There are days when I think I am losing my own coastline. I went to the Biblioteca Marciana to see Fra Mauro’s map from the 15th cenutry, the one that had south at the top, like Islamic maps. I’m pleased it’s here in Italy instead of in Portugal, despite it having been originally commissioned by the Portugese court. That was the way back then: Portugal paid, Spain explored and Italy made the maps. I must look out for Amerigo Vespucci’s birthplace when I get to Florence. Now why is it that Columbus is so famous and Vespucci is not? And A.V. was by far the more talented, acute and able of the two. Columbus found the new world, but didn’t know he had, and never did. Vespucci was the man who saw it for what it was. I hope I can find a copy of Waldseemuller’s map in Florence, too. His map of Vespucci’s voyage is one of the most intriguing and enigmatic stories in the history of cartography. Vespucci, the geographer of the New World. The first person to identify the New World of North and South America as separate from Asia. I wonder why Waldseemuller didn’t call them North and South Vespucciland. Thank goodness he didn’t. I wouldn’t have put it past him. Waldseemuller always did like to make up names; he even made up his own. Of course he tried to change his mind but by then it was too late. Everyone was using the word ‘America’ and there was no way anyone would countenace a change. Gerardus Mercator's 1538 world map sealed the deal, from then on all maps included ‘North America’ and ‘South America’. And yet Amerigo still remains viturally unknown while everyone goes on and on about Columbus, whose diaries didn’t sell nearly as well, who was a poor adminstrator and who died thinking he had successfully reached Asia.

Renaissance maps are so fascinating, disregarding reality in favour of fabulous disillusion and imagination. Lands shifted when necessary to make room for new information as it came in, however incorrect both the old and new details might be. Mapmakers had the power to decide which tiny island, bay or peninsula was important enough to merit being drawn, then mixing them up in a bizarre game of chance that went on even through the age of science when maps really were symbols of knowledge. Where known and unknown collide, science and fantasy sharing equal billing. Travel then was motivated by trade and conquest, but I’d like to think there was curiosity too. Especially by the mapmakers, who documented wonders they never saw themselves. Neither Waldseemuller, Ribero, Ortelius nor Fra Mauro went on any voyage, but such documents they produced! Living plans of the earth that shaped the growth of nations.

Later this afternoon I went into the Jewish ghetto, its buildings even more decrepit and decayed, with eroded brickwork, ragged laundry hanging from windows, and garbage everywhere. There was a bronze plaque in a little square remembering the Jewish deportation and consequent slaughter during the Second World War:

Men, Women, children march for the gas chamber

Advancing toward horror beneath the whip of the executioner

Your sad holocaust is engraved in History

And nothing shall purge your deaths from our memories

For our memories are your only grave.

I have never known war or torture or anything like the real pain and problems of those who lived here or elsewhere during times of strife. But I guess the effectiveness of a monument is the meaning it gives its viewers, each person’s own experiences subscribing to the feeling that emerges.

I thought of you there. Of your life. I had never met anyone who was an orphan, who had to leave high school early to look after a little brother, who worked at anything to earn food money. Busking for coins. Serving in restaurants and bars. Pumping gas. Working 18 hours or more every day of the week, just to survive. When I met you you’d just decided to go back to school, studying and writing essays in coffee and lunch breaks, working overtime to pay for night classes. I was so proud of you. You never wanted any help.

Remember…what was his name? The owner of the bar downtown. ‘The Crazy Fox’. Larry. Wasn’t it Larry? I think I’m losing my memory. One month Larry said, “Sorry Andrew, I can’t pay you this month. I got too much going on and not enough cash coming in.” Without giving you even a hint of this before payday! I was indignant, and tried to give you the money, even lend it to you, but you wouldn’t take it, saying your course would still be offfered the next term. You smiled and said, “Aw babe, (you always called me ‘babe’. I hate that word but for some reason I loved it that you called me ‘babe’) he’s really in a bind. I’ll help him out a bit to get him on his feet again. He’ll pay me when he can.” Of course he never did and you had to miss an entire semester because of it. You even threw his wife an impromptu birthday party because he said he couldn’t afford a present. Using his own wife to scam you! I was furious, but it never bothered you.

You deserved so much and asked for so little. I always wished I could have offered more, but you always said my love was enough to make you happy. Obviously not now. All the fighting I was willing to do for you I must do for myself to live without you. How ironic.

Shit.

What a way to feel on the last day of the year.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - Christmas past

My optimism at arriving in Venice has turned a bit south. I thought by now, by here, I’d be starting to sort things out. But things haven’t changed an inch: it hurts as much as it did that day in June. The ache is heavier and duller but it is still carried around every minute of the day. This winter was going to be so special: our wedding was going to be at Christmas, a Christmas now come and gone. After June I thought I’d never be able to make it one month after and now six have passed. I am shocked at still being alive. The pain of living has not dissipated

Do you remember last Winter my love? The day school ended and we went up into the hills to get a tree for your place? We took a sled and had a riotous time toboganning down every hill we could find. I got a bruise the size of a truck right on my rear fender. The sky was that sort of orange colour you see just before it snows and by the time we’d chosen our tree the flakes had begun to fall. It took ages to find just the right tree. We put mittens on the tops of potentials so that we could narrow it down, and when we ran out of mittens we used our scarves and then our hats. Starting to get cold, we went back to all the trees we had marked to make our final tree choice. We never did find my left mitten. On the way back we stopped off to buy some thread, then had hot rum while stringing popcorn and cranberries. After it was all done, we just sat in the dark holding each other and watching the twinkling lights with childish fascination. Oh man, I’ve got to stop thinking of things like this – I start to lose control and everything gets all blurry. Part of me just wants to let loose, tears and anguish out, but I am terrified of that. What if I can’t stop?

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - almost homesick

I tried to call home last night, even though I knew it would be difficult. I first tried the post office, but found out I couldn’t make collect calls on public phones and it was a four hour wait. Then I had a brainwave and asked Franco at his rather upscale hotel. He seemed happy to see me again but rather overwhelmed with a full hotel, directing me to the back where a bank of phones could be used. Joy of joy, I found lots of phones, but my euphoria turned to dismay when it appeared there was now a six hour wait! I decided to bite the bullet and call direct from the post office, reading while I waited.

I got through, cried, laughed and paid through the nose for fifteen minutes. Everyone was there so I was able to hear a few words in their voices and it felt so good. Sidney’s doing fine and looking forward to the baby’s arrival. The nursery’s already decorated and every evening for an hour she presses the radio to her belly, tuned to the classical channel, because she read in one of her books that babies can hear music before they are born and classical music makes them smarter. She didn’t ask me one question about myself but she did tell me to take care of her child’s auntie. Sam has finished her dog training course, said Sidney is impossible to be with for more than five minutes because all she talks about is the baby, and then she told me in depth about her new puppies, how responsive they are, what they eat and how they sleep and how one of them will only sleep on the cushion I had given Sam last year. Despite being virtually a silent partner on the other side of both conversations, I got the feeling my sisters actually missed me – a circumstance I was not expecting at all. Dad told me briefly about this years bean choices (Royal Burgundy and Tenderette for the Bush snaps, Painted Lady and Rattlesnake for the Pole snaps, and Montezuma Red, Appaloosa and Windsor for the Dry choices) and a new kelp fertilizer that promises great things. Mom has bought herself a divining rod because one of her mah jong friends told her she had the gift. All my presents had arrived. Mom and Dad asked me how I was and no one told me what I should be doing. It was the first time in my life that I actually felt like a part of my family. I really hated to say good-bye.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - o holy night

I lit candles to you all day and dreamed of you all night, this Christmas night. I miss you so much. I thought being in Venice would help but I feel alone in a wilderness.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - amore!

I am in love! Infatuated! I arrived in Venice at midnight, lights shimmering over tremulous watery pathways. A high white bridge carried me into this place of statues and domes, jasmine heavy in the night air. Tempered light caressed the dark, silent shuttered houses before submerging into black oily waters. This is a place where secrets and mysteries gather for anyone patient enough to decipher them. I feel transformed by the city, in love with it.

After wandering around in a romantic haze I realized a more practical head was required and I went into a modern hotel to ask directions. A pleasant young concierge took me in hand and phoned the pension I hadn’t been able to find in the dark. Alas! Completely full. He tried several more, all of which were full. I began to realize my plight arriving at midnight two nights before Christmas. The concierge, Franco, was sympathetic and, motioning me over to the end of the desk, he leaned close and ‘sotto voce’ confidentially invited me to stay in one of the reception rooms at the back of the hotel as long as I left before the cleaner came at 6am. There was no one else anywhere near his desk but I played along, hanging around like a guilty schoolgirl until I was given the all-clear to slip into a room containing huge armchairs and gigantic mirrors. I looked at maps and made plans while Franco crept in at intervals, whispering suggestions and information in his halted English. I slipped off my shoes and found the most comfortable chair I could. At 5:30, Franco awakened me – did he never sleep himself? I thanked him profusely as I left and promised to come back for a visit.

It was too early to bang on pension doors so I went into a café-bar and ordered espresso and ‘toast’, which turned out to be a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. I inhaled it while watching the regulars come in for their early morning coffee before heading off to work, all well dressed and purposeful. I envy them. The sun rose while I was there and my walk back under blue skies and cool air was invigorating. This city makes me restless, excited, expectant. I headed to the market area over cobbled streets and bridges. Then over the Rialto bridge to San Marco Square to bask in sunlight. I sat near the Bridge of Sighs, surely one of the most romantically named places in the world despite the fact it led to the place of execution. Pigeons flocked in droves. Pigeons seem to be everywhere in the world. Do they speak the same language I wonder? Could a Brazilian pigeon co-exist with an Italian one?

I lucked out near the train station, a room would be available in an hour for 23,000 lire, about 15 American dollars, very expensive, but it did include breakfast and showers. My room is tiny, room enough for only one single bad that sits flat on the floor. My pack will have to sit on the end of the bed, and I had to give the landlord my guitar for safekeeping as well. I was a little worried about that, he wears a white singlet that’s stained and smelly, and he hasn’t smiled yet, but I don’t have much choice.

It’s always a wonderful feeling to go striding out unencumbered by my things. Everywhere I went I could hear church bells tolling and feet clicking on the stones in a hurry to get somewhere. Growing up with my parents’ - shall we say - lack of religious fervour, I’ve never attended church on Christmas Eve, but somehow it seems like the obvious thing to do here. And I wanted to do it. I really felt some pull of desire to be with people tonight. I couldn’t quite take the hugeness of St. Mark’s, but purely by accident I found a charming little church packed with people all dressed in holiday best. It was a small but elaborate building, full of plaster work, paintings and giltwork. There was a large choir up front with a small orchestra and a second, rather small and rustic choir with a harpsichord up in the gallery behind. As it happens I was lucky to get seats at all, for soon it was standing room only and the service was a long one. I did pretty well until the end when all the lights were turned out except for the tiny white ones dressing two trees at the altar. With instruments silent, everyone in the entire church sang “Twas on a Night Like This”. The sound of it, Italian voices in this dim glittering place on the eve of Christmas just undid me and I sobbed like a baby. Although you and I were destined to spend only one Christmas together, I feel like we have shared this one too.

Sometimes I can make myself dream of you, and I intend to try tonight. I just think of the first time we spent the night together. My ‘first time’ too. What is it about one’s ‘first time’? I guess everyone remembers theirs.

The hockey play-offs were on. I’d always kind of liked hockey, so fast and exciting. You didn’t have a TV and I asked if you wanted to come over and watch with me and you said yes. We’d lie on big cushions on the floor in that tiny apartment, sharing beer and chips and watching the puck dart across the white ice. Vancouver vs. Chicago.

I could feel the heat of you lying close. My heart throbbed and I tried to calm myself by just looking straight ahead at the screen, the hockey action tamer than my emotions. In between the periods we would talk a bit, and kiss. Long, drawn out kisses that took my breath away. Then, that one night near the end of the semi-final, we kept kissing even when the second period started. I don’t think we watched one minute more of that game. We just lay there holding each other’s gaze and imploring each other’s lips, the TV flickering in the background. We must have looked ridiculous but it felt glorious. Is it really possible that anyone felt that way ever before? You didn’t get up to leave after the game ended. We just lay there holding each other. Time stopped.

“I’d like to stay the night, if I may.”

I buried my face in your shirt and felt the red hot blush go right through me. How could I tell you? It’s ridiculous to still be a virgin at 23. “I, yes, but… it’s…. my first time.” I looked up to see the surprised look on your face and felt uncomfortable and awkward.

You let out a breath. Then, silently, you rose, took my hand and led me into the bedroom, turned off all the lights. Then you undressed me, slowly, kissing each part of my ambiguous body as it became divested. The darkness allowed me to kiss you back, to touch you and explore your body in tentative, concealed caresses. We whispered and giggled until I started to feel more confident and sexy. Even after the safety of dark became light.

Then we didn’t sleep for weeks.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - nice Nice

Niki had told me I simply must go to Nice. No reason not to, I guess, even though I've been backtracking myself through the south of France. I thought I'd stop there on my way to Italy. I awkwardly got on the train, getting my guitar wedged horizontally between my body and the door opening. I am always getting caught in doors with it, like that scene in ‘The Sound of Music’ when Maria von Trapp takes the bus to go to her position as governess, all nervous about her new life’s direction. We have a lot in common, old Maria and me.


The train followed the Mediterranean coastline eastward. Farmers were out in the fields burning waste and the air was hazy and mellow in rheumy sun. Fields and vineyards became craggy rocks rising from the sea, dotted with villas. The soil changed from chalky white to brick red as the train moved east, terrain getting rougher. On the left side I saw dry hills and on the right, flashes of the Mediterranean Sea below. Nice’s old large and rectangular, was full of rowers, sailors and freighters. After wandering around the town, I walked along the breakwater and gazed out over lapis. The sun broke through cloud at times in long shafts of hazy light illuminating one spot of sea, then disappearing before finding another spot to transmute into sparkles of molten gold. Like a finger from heaven. I got one of those jumps in my heart. I tried to absorb the image, eyes closed, holding it as a memory. Ever since I was a kid. Another ‘golden second’. I wish I could find some way to express the joyous pain I feel at such beauty but I’m no artist. No poet either. A reader of other people’s words. A player of other people’s songs.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - proving myself

Yesterday my pension landlady wanted me to pay for a week’s worth regardless of how long I actually stay. She was short tempered and after taking my passport as insurance she directed me to a bank in town. Of course it was closed being Sunday. All the banks were closed and I spent my whole day trying to accomplish something that was unaccomplishable. I know she doesn’t know me and probably gets loads of travelers coming and going, many of whom might not be honest, but I’ve never really had anyone doubt me before. When I think about it, I guess I have never had to prove myself to anyone before. I grew up in one place and have always lived there. The people I went to university with were mostly the people I went to school with and the only new people I have met in the last few years are the people I worked with. And you of course.

It’s a bit of a blow to the ego. I can’t say, “Look, it’s me! I’m good for it. I’m clean and educated and generally a good person. Here’s a picture of my family and here’s one of my old cat and this…. this is – was - my boyfriend – yes he is handsome isn’t he?”

Oh damn, there go the waterworks again. Okay, I’m fine now. If I just swallow it inside and blink a lot I’m fine.

On reflection, being unknown is a bit like having a secret. I could be anyone. I can say anything and no one will be surprised that such things come out of my mouth. Cut adrift yet free at the same time. Occasionally I even find myself a little excited about my next destination or the day’s activities, or catch myself smiling at something I overheard or read or saw, and it shocks me. Could it be that I will – could - feel happiness again? That’s a little scary. And exhausting. I don’t want to even think about it. So much easier to concern myself only with ‘Now’. Where am I going to sleep? What am I going to eat? Do I have enough cash in the right currency? What time is the train east? How much are these postcards? Head down, do the time.

Anyway, today I could pay my landlady, who suddenly became all friendly and hugged me like I was her niece.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe- heart stop

I saw you today! I don’t know if what I saw was an image magicked up in my mind or an act of nature’s light, but I saw a man who looked just like you walking on the other side of the street. I froze, just staring as he – you - walked by. The same hair. The same walk. I wanted to run across the street, but could only sit frozen to my bench, staring at the place he had disappeared into, hoping against hope and reason that you would miraculously reappear, my heart banging against the wallls of my chest.

Of course it wasn’t really you. I know that. I wonder what I would do if I ever saw you again. Would I run forward and wrap myself around you or stand still and hope for you to approach me? Oh my head is full of questions! I am hobbled by questions. I yearn for you, and feel frozen in time. Other people pass. Cars, trains, seasons. I walk among them unseen and unnecessary. Like a spirit wandering the earth, occasionally interacting with someone or something, but leaving no impression, making no impact. Just wandering and searching for answers.

Mom’s birthday so I phoned her from Arles. Actually her birthday was yesterday but the only phone I could get to all day did not work. I had to spend a lot of my $30 phone call apologizing for missing the actual day. I always seem to start conversations with Mom with an apology. “People are beginning to wonder when you are coming home. I’ve told them Christmas so you had better make your arrangements.”

I suspect this is partly her way of saying she misses me but I just can’t play the game. I tell her it won’t be that soon.

“Well, what do I do when they ask me when you’ll be home?”

“Do nothing. Let them ask.” Does she really think I care about other people’s questions? I have enough of my own! Then she asked how I was enjoying my holiday. Holiday! Doesn’t she know that my heart is broken and I long for death? Of course not. That’s my own private turmoil. I told her of the ruins in Arles, and how picturesque they are in Autumn mists, what I’m reading and what fashions people are wearing. I have no idea really, I make up stuff about hem lengths and heel heights and hope it sounds convincing and provides the information she wants to hear. My money runs out and I still haven’t really told her anything. I want her to know what I am feeling but I don’t want to worry her. I want her to be proud of me, but not to overestimate my abilities. I want to see and do the things she would approve of, but can’t get enthusiastic about most of them. She wants to know everything I’ve done but I feel too lethargic to remember all the museum names, and too embarrassed to tell her it’s mostly just walking and killing time. Her questions feel intrusive, her comments dismissive. I didn’t ask anything about her and she asked too much about me. My answers became shorter, and we finished our conversation, both dissatisfied.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - trapped in the shower

I’m in a ‘foyer de la jeunesse’ in Toulon, a hostel for girls, with a very pink dormitory room. Why is it hostel decorators think all females are expected to like pink patterned walls and frilly curtains? I schlepped around town kicking up crisp brown leaves under the trees. It rained most of the day, and got cold. A November full of browns and greys. So different than at home when the earth is like some garish old lady wearing too much makeup – gold, scarlet, orange, purple. I normally love the colours of Autumn, but not this year. This palate is more soothing to my moods. I picked up a few Christmas gifts to mail off, the first shopping I’ve done since leaving home. I never thought I would have lasted so long, but I’m still alive so had better plan for the near future at least.

I had an interesting shower this evening. I got into a stall and soon realized I had two neighbours who happened to be sharing one of the other stalls, a man and a woman, quite obviously lovers. A few years ago I probably would have been shocked, but now I’d be doing the same thing if you were here. Then a shudder went through me, and I suddenly felt cold all over. My eyes started to sting with more than shampoo dripping into my eyes, and I said “damn” to myself, then got out of there as quickly and quietly as I could so as not to disturb them. It as only afterwards that I wondered how a man had been able to get past the stern lady and her steely ‘pince nez’ at the entrance to the ‘foyer de la jeunesse’.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - moving on

I’ve left Spain. I guess I thought a country that launched so many ships might launch me towards a clear direction but it didn’t. I’m still unsure of what to do next, still restless after a few days in each place, unable to gain respite, answers, satisfaction. But I’m glad I came. I’m surprised to find that despite its dirt and poverty, its magnificence and unrest, the country crept inside me. It’s like the taste of bitters I had in Denmark all those years ago. Horrible at first, but the more I had the more I came to like their intensity. Spain is a country that’s seen more than its fair share of internal unrest and teenaged rulers and religious sways – Jewish, Muslim, Catholic – extreme wealth and extreme poverty. There is certainly a lot of this world to see! If only I wasn’t so tired to want to see it. Instead I seem to drift through it, as if looking for something.

France seems more comforting, but maybe it’s just because the language is more familiar, all those school conjugations rising up from the depths. Mind you, it took awhile to come back to me after speaking Spanish these last weeks and months. In the middle of the night while I was sleeping with my head on my guitar alone in the train carriage, I suddenly became aware of a man who had entered and was sitting in the seat opposite, just staring at me. My body went rigid with alarm. I continued to lay there, trying to keep my breathing regular, hoping he’d go away. He must have caught a glint in my half-opened eye because he tried to strike up a conversation I half understood. ‘Pretty lady would you like to spend the night with me?’

I ignored him, but he moved closer and put a hand on my leg. I sat up bolt upright, hoping to scare him off, but he moved in closer, persistent. He put one arm around the back of the seat I was on and the other cupped over my knee. I jumped up and away, pointed to the door, feeling my voice quaver despite all efforts to say strongly, “Bon nuit monsieur, s’il vous plait!” I felt ridiculous wishing him ‘good night, if you please’ – not at all what I had wanted to say, but it was the first thing I thought of. He smiled and I could smell his sickly breath, a mixture of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol and garlic. What a cliché.

I sat on the opposite bench and turned away from him, crossing my arms, hoping desperately he’d just go away on his own, but he moved across and put his hand back, this time down by my ankle, slowly moving it up my leg. For some absurd reason all I could think about was how long it’s been since I’ve shaved my legs and I felt my face flush with embarrassment. I pushed the disturbing need to apologize aside and stood up on jelly legs. Quivering, I opened the door to the compartment and rasped out for assistance. The man got to his feet and moved towards me. I was terrified that he’d grab the door and close it, or hit me or something, but the compartment door next to us opened and the noise made him pause. Then he shrugged and moved out of the carriage, looking down at my breasts as he pressed past me. I moved back into the compartment and crossed my arms over my chest, shut the door and sat, wide awake, shaking like a leaf the rest of the trip, keeping myself from crying by thinking of all the more clever things I could have said.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - Barcelona

Barcelona is too big for my moods. I had expected to enjoy it here, as I had expected to enjoy Seville, a place that filled me with such sorrow that I left it immediately. Seville is a city created for departures I guess, all those voyages. Barcelona’s cathedral, weirdly Gothic, just seems empty. Gaudi’s overwhelming La Sagrada Familia is spooky and grotesque. In a previous life I’d be all over this, interested in when it was built, how many bricks it used, etc., etc.. At this point though, visiting it just fills in time between sleeping. To me Barcelona is a place that must sing in Summer, but now, in Autumn, it merely hums. Oh it’s beautiful all right. The air is brisk, soft and cold. Copses of trees rustle as burnished copper in the hazy light. The street lights’ metallic lace, like cobwebs in early morning strung across a gate with the drops of dew illuminating the delicate lines. I’ve gotten all sappy and poetic lately, trying to rhyme words for no reason. And here there are all the necessary distractions I could want. But Barcelona is too big for me. Autumn has come, it crept up behind me and now envelopes me, reminding me that time has passed, months have passed and I feel no less displaced. Somewhere in it I turned 25. A quarter of a century. I feel old.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - dreamless and tearful

I didn’t get to dream of you last night because I couldn’t get to sleep. Feeling restless and depressed, I went to bed early and then lay awake crying all night. The two months after you left I couldn’t cry at all. The hurt was like a stone weight inside me, or a sponge that soaked up any tears I had before they could be shed. Mom said I obviously didn’t really care that much about you if I couldn’t cry about it so for heavens sake buck up and stop being such a wet blanket. She had no idea that not being able to cry was worse. But as soon as I left home, it changed. Now I cry all the time.


I moved slowly this morning. There’s a market nearby for good bread and cheese, fruit and nuts. I’m getting better at speaking Spanish and now feel confident asking “Cuanto?” because I can finally understand the answers. Why do language books always teach students how to ask questions without preparing them for the answers? I have learned how to ask questions that require mostly only ‘Si’ or ‘Non’ in reply.


After my market stop and a beer in a seedy, crowded café I strolled along the shore imagining I was walking with my arm in the crook of your elbow. The sea was glittering and tossing sparkling jets of foam into the air, gurgling in joy and then tumbling onto the sand only to drag laughingly back to itself. Birds wheeled through the air, mediators between sun and sea. I sat on a bench under a palm tree feeling poetic, covertly listened to entwined lovers’ laughing, blind peddlers selling, elderly tourists marveling and young soldiers jesting. The sounds would blur into one, the sound of the waves shooshing onto shore, all human activity eventually reverting back to the sound of nature, a rhythmic beat we all become. I feel like I am watching from afar, from high up in the trees or the sky. Hearing all but listening to none of it. A spectre not connected to life or the living.

I wanna be your poet
Your lover, your hero, your slave,
To stand by your side
‘til I lay in my grave.
To open your eyes
to a love undenied,
Like the truth in the sun,
With the strength in the tide

Why oh why did you leave me? You never indicated that you were ready to or even wanted to go and that makes it worse. It was so sudden. I long to feel your arms around me, and to see your eyes laugh back into mine. My mind keeps trying to change what happened. And shut out the long years ahead without you. What am I going to do with those years? How can I possibly live them? Of course I can never say it in letters home, but I am hoping for some swift and painless accident that will just end everything. I don’t care about going into unsavoury or even dangerous places much these days. That way, if something fatal were to happen it would not be by my hand. I call myself “the suicidal single”, even though I just know I don’t have the courage to actually do anything. I’m such a coward. My only hope is to have something happen out of anyone’s control. Then you too might know a tiny portion of the pain I have felt these last weeks. Maybe then my spirit would be free to seek you out, and follow you forever.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - the sea!

I had no idea how much I had missed the sea. I certainly told you often enough how much I love it, didn’t I? The first glimpse of grey-green breakers crashing on a shore always fills me with a peculiar kind of joy. The smell of it, the sound of it and the look of it in all weathers satisfies something deep inside me. I could live for a long time away from it, but it’s like a part of me is dormant, or hibernating until the time when I can be near it again.

I reunited with the sea in Alicante. I have an inside room with no window, but the pension is not far from the beach and I can smell it through the crevices and down the halls. I followed that scent outside and down the streets until my ears picked up its cadences, then I caught a glimpse of green and white and there it was. That first day I stretched out on the dusty sand with my books, some fruit and the wind playing in my hair, watching the green waves crash into white again and again like some never ending fugue. I plan to spend part of every day there. Tonight I hope I dream of you – I always feel you are close to me when I do.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - depression arriving

I don’t think there is any part of Granada that has not seen my feet. Every avenue, every church, every vista, every market. It’s getting too familiar and I start to think of other things, things outside the geography of the place and I get depressed. Time to move on.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - perfect night

I had a bit of an incident with a persistent Spaniard in a restaurant last night, finally insulting him in French to shake him off, but not really even knowing what I said. It shook me up and I felt like crying. Just when I was thinking I was doing quite well! I haven’t cried for days and now I am all shaky and teary. You always made me feel safe, confident and protected. Now I feel vulnerable and weak, something I hadn’t felt since I was a teenager. If I was younger I’d call up ‘Fakira the brave’, but it’s hard to believe in her now. Every day seems such a fight. Two steps forward and another step back.


Sometimes I wonder how you could have loved me at all. I’m always second guessing myself, doing one thing, then going over and over it in my mind afterwards to determine whether or not I should have done something else. How on earth did I manage as a teacher those four years, knowing what to teach and how to teach it? Of course I went over and over each lesson at home first, and of course if anything unexpected happened I would replay it in my head that night to see if I could have handled it any better, but then the next day there were new lessons and new unexpected things so one day never lasted long in my head.


You always told me I should have more confidence in myself, that I shouldn’t worry so much about what other people think. What my mother thinks. I tried so hard to be better. And you must admit I did in the time we were together. But my system suffered a severe blow when you left me and I’m having a hard time not blaming myself. I question whether there was something I could have done better so you would be here now.


At down times like this I call upon one of my good memories. This time it was the camping trip we went on with the “Carousel” gang. Everyone met over at my place, but you came over earlier because I had a broken door handle and you had offered to fix it for me. I hid by my window so that I could see you arrive and when you came walking up the path, my heart did a little jump. Your black hair was tousled and you were wearing that green tee shirt of yours, my favourite one, and those tight jeans that made you look even leaner than you were. You were whistling and I thought, ‘This guy is so utterly gorgeous and he’s coming to see me!’


At the campsite we put up four big tents and built the most enormous fire ring by the lakeshore, spending the whole day and dusk sitting around that fire, drinking good beer and bad wine, laughing and talking. Talking about the theatre and books and music and travel and the world and the heavens! It felt wonderful to be young and blithe, able to shake off our daytime personas as teachers and nurses and bank managers, and be amateur artists and students of the world together. At one point the whole thing swelled up in me and I had to walk down to the water, close my eyes and just listen to everyone talking animatedly, feel the soft breeze on my face. When I opened my eyes I saw a few sparkling lights from houses across the bay, and a sky enormous with the light of ten thousand stars. I thought life could never get any better than at that moment.

Gradually some of the group went to bed but I don’t know how anyone could possibly sleep away one moment of this time together. After awhile it became obvious that there was only one vacant tent left and that we were the only two to fill it and I got a rush of shyness. I just wasn’t ready for anything really big yet. We’d only just met. My heart pounded while we stayed up and talked some more, the fire now a throbbing orange glow. Then, without another word you picked me up and carried me to the tent, setting me down in one sleeping bag while you climbed into the other. You let me off the hook, but lay down beside me. I was so grateful and relaxed immediately. But not in a sleepy way. Oh no, my heart was beating in lurches and I could feel the excitement of lying in darkness next to a man I felt such attraction to. Sleep was not on either mind it seemed. I was so aware of your body two layers of fabric away. I could feel its motions and smell its scent, the darkness heightening my senses and emotion. We whispered the whole rest of the night in the dark, about our thoughts and dreams, breath inches away from each other’s lips. Every once in a while we’d hear a loud snore from one of the other tents and we’d stop, laugh and start our whispered conversation again. All night. Night never went by so swiftly nor so perfectly. Just as it was getting light, you leaned over and kissed me, full on the lips for so many minutes. I just closed my eyes and felt my heart beat against the skin in my throat. We each lay back to watch the sun’s progress over the roof of the tent, not saying anything. I could feel the pressure of your lips on mine for hours. I can feel it yet.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - caged birds

After the Alhambra and yesterday’s meanderings through Generalife, a wondrous garden in the old part of the city, I needed open air, so walked out into the surrounding countryside, wondering if Magellan walked near here before departing from Seville to find the world. A journey he never saw the end of. I feel a kinship with that. He was such a famous traveller and yet it was ironic that it was not he, nor any other great captain for that matter, but rather a Filipino servant employed by Magellan in India many years before he touched on the Philippines himself, that would be the first man to circumnavigate the globe. Sometimes what seems obvious on the surface reveals more unusual truths underneath. I wonder if I am going to end up like Magellan or like the Filipino servant.

I found a wild track that led up to green and gold views of the snow capped Sierra Nevada. Burros carried loads of sand, rocks or straw along the narrow tracks. They looked quaint and charming until I saw a small truck struggling, the driver finally giving up and carrying the load himself. Burros are more practical than poetic here. Local villagers and umpteen children ran and sat out in front of their holes as I passed by, holding their hands out for money. There were dozens of these curious holes cut right into the hillsides, like black gaping mouths looking across the valley. Upon closer examination I found they truly open into homes to these impoverished people. Some had tiny, neat gardens out front, but most led simply to a room cut into the hill. The occasional one even had a door haphazardly fitted into the opening. It looked so odd to see a real wooden door, painted red or green, set in place with the earthen hole it was meant to cover still showing around its edges.

Feeling lucky to have a lunch of bread, cheese and fruit I sat on a ledge across from the Alhambra, but at a higher elevation, so I could see both it and the city below with the distant mountains as backdrop. While there, my eye caught sight of a young boy crouched some distance away. Every once in a while he’d move to another spot, but he never stopped staring intently at something in front of him. My eyes followed his gaze until they espied a few birds in tiny cages hanging in one tree and chirping lustily.

A bird does not sing because he has an answer,

He sings because he has a song.

As I ate, I watched the boy moving around watching his caged birds. Once he looked over to me, with the same furtive and serious expression, so that for a moment I felt I was one of his caged birds. I made myself wave and smile. He nodded back gravely, then returned to his earlier scrutinies, releasing me. He never looked my way again and I never did find out why his attention was so taken with those caged birds.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - Granada

Now I know why Toledo has no water – Granada has it all! I spent the entire day at the Alhambra. An ancient Moorish royal palace, it overlooks the city and is filled with fountains and little liquid statues, walkways with rivulets flowing from stairs and gardens, even pouring down banisters. Rooms lead into rooms, courtyards, gardens and yet more rooms. And always the soothing sound of water. I roamed and let it touch all the alleys of my soul, often stopping to read in somewhere hidden, encircled by liquid. Right now it’s Washington Irving’s tales, fitting as he spent so much time here himself.

I was the last one to leave. With the gates closing behind me, I peered in one last time, not wanting to rush too quickly back into the modern world. Taking small lanes back, twisting alleys filled with gypsies and beggars, shopkeepers and fortunetellers, I went into a little shop and came away with a guitar. I don’t know quite why I bought it. I have no idea how to play it. I guess it seemed the sort of shop to go into here, and the rows of golden wood instruments hanging in the window looked so romantic. Inside there were two young men strumming softly, trying out the newly finished mechanics, and I suddenly found myself with one placed in my hands, feeling its smooth sides and cool neck. I never even questioned its possession. The air seems to move through it like breath, and its strings talked to me. It makes me feel you are near somehow, whispering in my ear.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - southward

When I was packing this morning I found an enormous cockroach in my luggage. I squelched a scream and jumped to the other side of the room, my heart pounding. But I had to deal with it myself of course, there was no one else. So I moved in and gingerly took out each piece of clothing, one at a time, shaking it out on the floor before putting it back on the bed to refold. I finally got down to the bottom and isolated the creature, then shut my eyes and flipped the bag over. Knowing I’d have to see the thing leave to believe it, I kicked the suitcase around the room watching until the bug scrambled away, then I quickly repacked everything and zipped the case up tight. I felt both victorious and shaky.


A ten-hour train trip took me through wonderful country south to Grenada, almost at Spain’s southernmost coast. Citrus groves and cotton fields. I haven't brought much stuff with me on this trip but it is wonderful having my Walkman; music illuminates scenery dramatically. Sometimes the songs make me cry. I think of the time you and I wasted not telling each other our true feelings earlier.


I have taken to reading poetry. It seems to say so much of what I’m feeling in such concise words. Or else I look in it for hidden meanings, things written only to me. Ridiculous I know. I’m sure everyone does that. In an English collection I found at a second hand store, someone had made pencilled additions in the margins and I am more intrigued by the additions than the collection. It seems the previous owner felt much as I do, underlining some couplets that are particularly resonant:


But there is that within me which shall tire
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire. (Byron)


Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea. (Thomas)

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - claustrophobic

I feel tight. Like a clock that’s been overwound. Like a … oh I can't think of a word that's right. When written down, my feelings always sound like a bad novel. I have to try so hard to keep control or I’ll snap, pinging my parts all over the landscape. Tears are always just there under the surface ready to sting when I see a frightened child, a tender parent, a mournful dog. I can’t think straight, or too long or of too many things, and it’s getting worse, not better, with time. It’s all I can do to decide what I am going to eat today or where I’m going to walk.


I just got a letter from Mom and Dad telling me they don’t mind about themselves but I should really write to Babby. Andrew, I write postcards to everyone, including Babby, constantly! I must send 20 postcards a week! Don’t these people talk to each other? Maybe it’s their way of saying they want to hear from me more often, but why can’t they just say that? Why do they make it seem instead like I’m doing something wrong? I caught myself wandering around muttering “shoulda, woulda, coulda” over and over. I think I might go crazy. I start to think about what it would be like to just step in front of a train and everything would be over in a second. No more ties to family or world. No more feeling inadequate. No more having to know where to go or what to do each day. But instead I look both ways, buy my tickets, and wrap up well. I wonder if I really am being sensible or if I am just a coward after all.


It’s rained almost constantly since I arrived in Toledo. I loved it in the beginning but now everything is beginning to seem claustrophobic – El Greco's long people, narrow streets, steep stairs winding around courtyards filled with plants. I have been everywhere several times. My brain feels squeezed. I need space. I have to leave.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe -Toledo

Crap. The water is shut off here every day between 7pm and 7am. What a time to get my period! I had an entirely sleepless night, worrying about the sheets, but the morning and a warm bath brought more equilibrium, as did a bowl of thick, dark hot chocolate. Toledo’s cathedral is unexpectedly imposing and impressive for a relatively small town. I went early, then stayed to see what a Roman Catholic mass is like. Conducted entirely in Spanish of course, I didn’t get a huge amount of inspiration from the words, but the surroundings offered much in their place.

It’s a wonderful country for gilding: there are dozens of lanky statues dressed in gold from far away places stretching up towards the small circular stained glass windows. I tried to shut out the image of how the gold got here, but then fell into imagining what it must have been like to be an Incan princess or an Aztec jeweller. There are several enormous oil paintings with little clutches of flickering white candles at their bases, which only highlight how darkly painted the oils are; moody blacks, greens, indigos and maroons. Jesus hanging, head down, blood dripping from his wounds. Mary holding her dead son, a broken man splayed out on her blue mantle. Even the tender mother and baby, usually a scene of optimism and hope, was tempered with foreboding; sadness filling Mary’s eyes. I wandered back and forth among the portraits, seeing something new in ones I’d passed a half hour before. Churches in Europe contain everything galleries and museums do, with the added benefit of providing a place to just sit in silence. I don’t have to make any decisions or ask any questions. The doors are always open and I am always welcome.

At lunch my limited language skills picked out ‘soup of egg yolk’. Aptly named. My bowl arrived with a lone egg yolk perfectly intact floating in a hot, milky broth. It looked horrible. And with little bullets of ham that were pretty well inedible lurking in the bottom of the bowl, I soon gave it up as a bad job and left almost in tears. These days even a small thing as bad soup makes me feel awful.

In the afternoon I visited El Greco’s house and museum. I never really knew his art before. Now I’d know it anywhere. His paintings, mostly large - the Spanish have a penchant for the conspicuous - are filled with subjects that seem pensive, even vacant, and with elongated, almost feminine hands that mesmerize me. He puts light into dark corners. I wandered around the house where he lived and painted, returning to some rooms and staying longer in others. How wonderful it must be to have a talent like this, to put in tangible form ones thoughts and feelings.

I have found stirring places in Toledo, most unexpectedly around corners. My favourite is Santa Maria’s grove of quiet trees. There is a bench there, of grey stone that undulates after centuries of bodies have sat and worn it down in places. I would sometimes pick a soft dip to sit on, mirroring bottoms from yore, and other times I would choose a part of the bench less favoured. The trees would whisper in the soft breeze and drizzly rain, their leaves that metallic colour leaves get before falling at the end of Autumn. No one else was ever around and I could sit alone and feel the centuries seep up through my body, and indulge in memories. I can choose which memory to bring up, what memories of you to remember. Spain is a romantic place and romance is constantly in my mind thinking of you so far away. All the times we spent together spring to life in my mind as I pace the streets and sit on benches. I can’t believe we only knew each other just a year.

It was a Thursday. The day we met. I remember it was a Thursday because that was the opening night of “Carousel” and our shows always opened on a Thursday. You came to the party after with our costume maker Janelle, and I thought you were the handsomest man and Janelle’s boyfriend. You read me some of your poems, then asked me to dance and dipped me, which was so romantic. The room seemed too hot and we went to sit out on the back steps and talked for an hour and a half. Four years older than me which seemed a lot at the time. And with the most wonderful smile I’d ever seen.

You came to the show every night after that and went out with all of us afterwards, sometimes with Janelle but mostly on your own. A flicker of hope. I loved it when sometimes you sat next to me. You made me laugh. I tried not to be too obvious about how much I liked being with you because I’d look so ridiculous if you didn’t feel the same way. When the show’s run finished we both stayed at the closing night party until it shut down, then watched the sun rise from the roof. I didn’t want to leave in case I never saw you again, but I’d never asked a guy out before.

“Would you maybe want to meet up sometime, you know, for a drink or a movie?”

“Yes, I would.”

“If you have time, of course.”

A quizzical look, given you’d already answered my question. “Yes, I will have time.”

My face went hot, now back to improvising. “Really? Um, that’s good. I’d like that, too.”

I felt like a nine year old, stumbling over my words, my mouth dry with excitement. And then we talked some more and you told me that you thought I hadn’t been interested in you, and so tried to hide your own disappointment by acting uninterested in me! How many love affairs have been curtailed by mistaken assumptions and emotional cover-ups? I am blushing now just remembering it!

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - dirt and pastries

Toledo is charming with cobbled streets, narrow twisting lanes bordered by narrow twisting buildings, little shops crowding the streets and bakeries everywhere. I had no idea Spaniards loved pastries so much. Even on today’s National Day, a holiday, the pastry shops are open and jammed full of people.

The journey here coincided with my first rain in days. I raised my face to feel it streaming, washing me clean. Madrid had been always filled with sunshine. Every morning I would awake to see it gliding through my large windows. I had the most happy dreams that entire month. But they made me restless, seeming so close that I didn’t want them to end at light of day. Even as I tried to clutch on to them I could feel them slip away to join the rays of sun, becoming as transparent as smoke when it drifts and mingles with air. I filled the days as much as possible with walking and eating and reading in order to get back to my lovely dreams again. You were always there in them somewhere woven into the string of unconnected events that dreams always are. And every morning you’d disappear again. Oh, Andrew, I miss you so much! I feel so lonely, there are times when I wish I could just die, but then I feel guilty and horrible inside for wishing such a thing. I have to keep telling myself that why you’re not here is not my fault.

I often wonder what you’d think of the places and people I see and the things I fill my time with. Time is different now. I’m not rushing to any timetable, no schoolbell directs my plans. I don’t even care what the hour is, only that it is filled with diversion. Yesterday I sat awhile in Madrid’s train station in a little green and white coffee shop above the platform, probably the cleanest place in Madrid if not in all of Spain. The Spain I’ve seen so far is pretty filthy. Dogs foul the sidewalks, dust swirls in corners, urine smells pucker my nostrils. Piles of litter fill empty spaces in the streets and beggars line walls and passage-ways looking more grimy and sad the more money they receive. I read that some of them even amputate their own limbs in order to become more effective beggars. Men say ‘shhh’ to me as I pass and others spit. There’s spittle everywhere, so if the dog poop doesn’t get you the spit does. The toilets never have toilet paper or hand towels, and are so putrid I don’t even want to look let alone sit. Some of them are just squatters anyway, with two metal plates where you plant your feet before squatting, holding your pants or skirts so that they don't drag on the ground. I can never find out how to flush them, and then they flush all by themselves, which is creepy, especially when I am still squatting on top of them. Flies skulk everywhere. I never thought a fly could skulk, but Spanish flies definitely skulk.

My little clean oasis of a coffee shop afforded a good look at everyone coming and going, seeing relations off on journeys and greeting returning friends. I drank strong coffee and watched, grateful to be invisible until the time came for my own train’s departure. Families hugged goodbye, grandparents welcomed grandchildren, couples separated with exaggerated despair for temporary severance. I know I should be comforted with seeing how life goes on, but I’m not. How do others cope? Since you’ve gone I’ve felt so weak. I know there’s an inner core that somehow keeps me alive and moving, but my emotions are feeble, strung out like a piano wire that cuts like a blade. The slightest little memory sends me down into the depths. I feel so vulnerable without you. Losing you dismantled me.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - exploring Madrid

I slept soundly for 11 hours - 11 hours! I had a beautiful dream – a mediaeval romance of a dream. You were on a large grey horse, standing over me, then you picked me up in a cloak of dark green velvet and we rode up the skies to spend eternity together. Delicious thrills went through me and I felt utterly at peace upon waking, lying there looking myopically at the chandelier. Every romantic bone and erotic place in my body was alive. I felt like a beautiful nymph, my hair all tousled and my eyes sleepy, the sort of creature depicted in great paintings or written about in delicate poems. Words you wrote once to me repeat themselves: “My day is rewarded when I awake, for you flower in my eyes. Sunlight streaming through the curtains to touch you, setting your outline afire.”


Of course that image shattered the minute I got up and looked in the mirror at the limp, brown creature that looked back at me. A cold shower brought me back to cruel reality. I am alone and will probably always be alone. Spending eternity with myself.


My mood lightened outdoors. It had been dark last night when I arrived, so Madrid now presented itself to me as if whisked into existence during my sleep. The busy streets are broken frequently with “Plazas” and wide, treed boulevards, fountains, parks and bakeries in equal profusion. A new prime minister was elected less than a year ago and everyone feels optimistic. My steps took me to the Naval Museum to see the maps, especially Juan de la Cosa’s world map from 1500, which I had been wanting to see since hearing about such an early map of the complete world, as it was then. Why was there never any map legacy from that voyage he took with Columbus in 1492? One of the great mysteries. There’s no visual record of Marco Polo’s voyages either. Of course having a map is not always enough to prove anything. Take Atlantis. And Lemuria. And Verrazano’s Sea. People really believed he saw the Pacific Ocean across the outer banks of North Carolina, convincing enough for mapmakers to copy it again and again. And it wasn’t even him, but his brother who mapped it in the first place. Oh dear, I suppose my teaching years have made me into a bit of a fact bore, even to myself.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - the rain in Spain

It was raining as Spain rattled past my window. Landscapes blended into vistas - jagged mountains, rolling meadows, scraps of garden, lines of rocks serving as fences, sheep, shimmering green and yellow trees following twisting brooks, more sheep. Lots and lots of wet sheep. The water on the windows mirrored the tears that constantly covered my eyes. The only way to clear my mental fog was to look at landscapes and try to think about the things that must have happened here or that will happen here, the people, the cultures, the generations of sheep. I would imagine looking down on myself from the roof of the train, watching and thinking about what I saw. Thinking. Much better than feeling. Thinking allows for detachment. Feeling is a precipice.

I have made it to the country that launched so many magnificent voyages, and savagely destroyed so many peoples and lands. So many goodly cities ransacked and razed; so many nations destroyed and made desolate; so infinite millions of harmless people of all sexes, states and ages massacred, ravaged and put to the sword; and the richest, the fairest and best part of the world topsiturvied, ruined and defaced for the traffic of pearls and pepper…oh base conquest. Well, that’s what you get for studying mankind, Montaigne. I have never seen a greater monster or miracle than myself.

And yet what courage Spain showed, too! Encouraging exploration, sending men and ships into the unknown, without maps, sometimes without even rumours or legends. The world has never been the same. Other countries have never been the same. Some thrived, like Belgium and Italy making maps and charts, and others didn’t, like Mexico and Peru, gold lost to Spanish greed.

I’m feeling a bit dazed, my brain clashing from thought to thought. It seems like I just landed in Paris and then left, needing to escape northern intellectual climes and see places known for passion and heat. Places that launched ships into the unknown, not those that charted the results. I shifted luxuriously in my seat. Travelling by train allows me to daydream or look out at the scene presented to me and think. There is so much to look at and think on that I got caught up in the pace of unfolding scenery and was surprised to find myself arrived, in Madrid, ensconced in a pension bedroom containing a lavish chandelier and the most comfortable bed. I can’t quite remember how I got here, but then I have been existing in a sort of muffled bag for weeks now, moving and thinking without registering.

Oh Andrew, I am so very conscious of the fact you are not here – we should be doing this trip together. I feel resentful of everyone I see who looks happy, and so piteous of myself. Talking about you helps, but I have no one to talk to about you, and if I did I know I would do it so constantly it would drive the other person crazy. This way is better really. I can write, describing the places I go so you see them with me, even though you are far away.

I had a pounding headache when I arrived but thought food might help. Figuring it must be late when I emerged from my sixth floor eyrie because there were so few people about, I hunted for a little place that might be open. I found a nice looking place but it was totally empty and I felt embarrassed going in. I found another but it looked a bit rougher. A third was also empty and kind of dark. So I went back to the first place and looked in, trying to pretend I was looking for someone. It was still empty and I didn’t know what to do. Before I could decide, the waiter saw me, opened the door and gestured me in. I couldn’t say no at that point.

I seem to have turned up in the country without having taken in more than three words from all the pages I studied in my Spanish phrasebook. After I’d verbally trashed his language trying to order food, the waiter just put his pad down, gave me a long, slightly pained look, then turned on his heel and returned shortly after with lots of little plates of delicious things and a small carafe of red wine to go with it.

Ok, so first thing I have learned about Spain - eat late. When I left the café it was packed with people. The streets were thronged too. Bands played and people danced in between strings of others out shopping and meeting friends and lovers. Food stalls and outdoor bars interrupted the flow of bodies eating and smoking. Everyone was either in couples or groups, chatting and laughing and even singing. I continued to imagine about this person’s poverty or that person’s hunger or the other one’s despair as I walked back alone to my room. I know in my head they all can’t really be miserable, but my heart is resentful of the happiness of others.