The train is slowing down, clearly pulling into a station where some people will disembark, but I mostly ignore it, because its too soon, we are not supposed to be arriving in Granada for another 30 minutes. And we’re not ready, we are still in the dining car, just having finished breakfast. Our stuff isn’t packed up. I haven’t spent the last few minutes anticipating our arrival to this place I knew 20 years ago, and letting the excitement build the way it does on Christmas Eve when you know the next day is Christmas. But no, Tyler points out, the signs outside say “Granada”. We are here, and it’s time to get off the train.
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“The air in Burlington is so much cleaner. It doesn’t have the problem that the air here does,” Isaac says. It’s a somewhat familiar statement at this point, one he has repeated before.
“Well, this is a big city,” I respond. “It’s hard to avoid when you have so many people living in one place.” I try to point out the things that Barcelona does well to help with air quality- the amount of well functioning public transport options, the ability to walk so many places- but it is clear that he isn’t listening. His complaint was not a request for a dialogue. Monologues are really more his thing. ![]() One Sunday I went on a meandering walk through our neighborhood, with a goal (find an open hole-in-the-wall store that sells milk amongst all the stores that are closed on Sundays), but no specific destination in mind. As I wandered down the street searching for an open door, I stumbled upon a narrow pedestrian path that snaked its way through residential buildings to a more commercial (though still narrow) road on the other side. I entered through the low stone archway that marked the path’s entrance, passing through the shade it provided to the open air and the sun beyond. As I walked along, I took note of the cobblestones under my feet, the old stone buildings on my left and right, and the sun warming my back and glinting off the orange trees still heavy with fruit in the middle of winter.
Sometimes your Sunday in Spain could happen anywhere: reading and creating at home while the morning sun blankets your spot on the floor, a walk to the park, a good stick battle.
Being called 'Woman'
The other day at the grocery store I couldn't quite reach an item on the top shelf (a not uncommon occurrence for me), so I asked a store employee for help. Our dialogue went like this: |
AuthorMother, wife, previous and current Spain-dweller, excited to back here again. Archives
July 2015
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