[continued from entry of November 6]
Woke this morning up in the wee hours, the neighborhood outside quiet. Could feel I wouldn't be getting back to sleep right away, turned on the bedside light to read for a bit. Opened up a book, found myself needing to stop now and then to look up a word (part of the cost of the ongoing learn-Spanish thing), began thinking how nice it would be to have what's called a photographic memory. Which got me remembering Ricky Berg, a guy I knew in junior high who actually had a photographic memory. I remember him telling me how easy it made certain kinds of homework, I remember staring at him as he talked, thinking about the possibilities. Which got the me of here/now thinking about how I experience and process this life of mine.
It's not photographic, exactly. More along the lines of a vivid process of absorption, me in the middle of whatever's happening, senses working away (like, er, everyone else on the planet, I suppose). Watching, listening, etc., often with a slight sense of something I could maybe call remove. Not distance, exactly, a word that suggests a kind of not-feeling. A slight remove. Or something. Whatever it is, I sure as hell am feeling while I'm in the middle of it all. And adoring the show, even in the weird times.
I found myself with Jorge, María, Almudena, post-morning hike, doing the watching/listening thing in a bar/restaurant in a old, old village -- locals streaming in and out in Sunday mode, coming from church or on the way to Sunday dinner, appearing to be mostly family groups, sometimes three generations, lots of kids and teenagers about. J., M. and A. ordered liquid refreshment, a plate or two of finger food. I -- having eaten nothing at breakfast, the only available fare being heavily sugared -- ordered juice, water, a sandwich, the others countered with another round of food/drink. Noise, energy, conversation. Tony and Juan Carlos showed up at some point, briefly disappeared to pick up bags of provisions for the evening's dinner, reappeared settled down with us for a while.
In his food run, Juan Carlos picked up the single largest, heaviest bar of chocolate I've ever come across. So thick, so dense that someone had to use a knife and some elbow grease to break a chunk off, fingers alone lacking the torque or muscle mass to get the job done. Not to be used lightly, this chocolate, not for baking or for making cups of hot liquid. To be employed as a weapon. A club or bludgeon. Or as an anchor, to stabilize hikers trying to make some headway in the face of gale force winds.
But I blabber.
We collected our stuff, filed outside (our table immediately disappearing beneath the heaving mass of an extended family looking for somewhere to sit, and the term 'heaving mass' is only a slight exaggeration of the way they took over the space we'd just occupied). Headed back to the car through a river of locals exiting an ancient church, drove to another village for what I thought would be a meal. Turned out to be a rerun of the situation from the evening before, stopping at another joint for liquid refreshment and finger food, me the only lonely soul jonesing for something more substantial. A joint in a lovely village, a pueblo that looked like it might provide a nice life, the streets alive with locals out for Sunday socializing, the various restaurants, pubs, bakeries packed with customers.
At the previous place, Jorge had received a call from two friends who were en route. We waited for them to show, me enjoying the general scene, when they arrived everyone in the original group except Jorge took me by surprise by deciding to take off for a second, more ambitious hike, leaving Jorge behind with the two new arrivals. I opted for further exercise, quickly found myself crammed into a small car with four other folks, heading out of the village toward mountains and dark, overspreading clouds.
[continued in entry of November 10]
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 2:02 PM [+]
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