From the wall of Santa Barbara hermitage, La Fresneda, 2012
I planned a series of posts about Spain, a list of the things that I love: eating dinner at ten at night, eating lunch at three, days reconstructed by the very hot sun, siesta dripping, endlessly, the tortas, the tapas, the wine, The Guggenheim, the plastic curtains separating the inside of houses from the outside world, the surreal ice lollies, the olive groves, the greenest river pools you ever saw, the hermitages stuck onto the sides of dry mountains, rivers sewn through the heart of stone, the old men gathered in white short sleeves, the teenage swimming pool girls who serenaded mine, the drive across the desert, the second breakfasts ( we think of ourselves as hobbits when we travel), the cortado, the living in the van ( which a man called Dusty named our wagon), the sleepy Charentes, the Navarre mountain plateau where horses rode wild, the...but the day is dawning and today is back to work time and today - before breakfast, I must eat something - I imagine time going backwards, the unpacking of bags, the unreading of maps, the places travelling back from my mind to the page, evrything becoming unknown again, the unpicking of a path.
2 comments:
"The unpicking of a path." This sentiment is what I have wished for this last week as I think back to my time in Europe... to have it all over to live again. And yet, to not have what I had...? Ah, nostalgia.
I love these short snips into your Spanish days. I remember loving the late meals and the men in white shirts, too. And being a hobbit while traveling seems like admirable work to me. :)
Yes, "the unpicking of a path", I like to imagine my journey's stitched onto a map, then on returning, I wonder how we travel back, unpick the path, fascinated by our nostalgic desire to hold onto the memories.
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