Tuesday -- found myself awake and up far too early, in keeping with the previous two weeks. Got packing done with plenty of time to spare, likewise with straightening out the house. Walked down the hill around noon to give some groceries that needed to be used to my 84-year-old downhill neighbor, Mo, and his live-in sweetie, Barb. He's been experiencing aches and pains of late, especially in a part of his body that a surgeon wants to have a go at (with no guarantee of any kind that it will help). Mo said he's been contemplating getting a second opinion, his expression slightly timorous as he talked about it, a strange look to see on the face of someone normally so sure of himself, so independent.
As I walked back up the snow-covered road a short time later, carrying a near-dead potted snapdragon plant Barb had been taking care of for me (did okay until the last few days, when it suddenly began to droop, looking like it might be ready to call it quits, make the trip to the great greenhouse in the sky), a car passed, slowed, stopped. The taxi-service driver, I saw, who'd be taking me to the airport later on -- stopping by to let me know she'd be there on time, and also, it turned out, needing to get out of her house, where she lived with her parents, both deeply into Alzheimers. We talked, her airedale wagged its whole body as it sniffed my hand, the driver took off to find some lunch.
Two hours later she was back, we began a long, leisurely ride to the airport, a drive that included a detour through dirt roads to the west of Montpelier (an Enrique Iglesias CD, of all things, playing, volume set high), where she showed me homes of people she knew, scenes of family history (her family having roots deep enough that a local road bears their name), and stopped to say hello to a donkey in a yard, the animal recognizing her immediately, sauntering over to the fence and talking to her in donkey-speak. Big animal, its winter coat thick and fuzzy.
From there, the airport in Burlington, the wait to board the plane. (An announcement made via the in-house PA system, mid-wait: "Someone left their Shea Body Butter at the security checkpoint. Please come to security to claim your..." -- here they drew the words out comically, as if enjoying the moment far too much -- "Shea... Body... Butter.") Not the kind of announcement you'd hear in a major airport. In teeny Burlington International, however, you might.
A fast flight to Philly. Then more waiting. Then the flight to Madrid. A long flight, me trapped in my window seat by a heavyset Spanish woman who slept most of the way. (Note: to any who might consider flying U.S. Air from Philadelphia to Madrid -– the two times that I've taken that flight in recent months, I have experienced the two worst examples of airline food that I've ever had the misfortune to choke down. The in-flight crew were good people, but the chow? Deadly. Be warned.)
And then Madrid. Soft January sunlight, Spanish being spoken all around. And when I entered this flat, I experienced a feeling I would be hard-pressed to describe. That of being home, maybe, or of being in what currently feels like home. Unlocked the door, walked in, dropped my bags, slipped into the loo for a fast whiz, immediately went back out and found a neighborhood joint for an espresso and something to eat.
Streets busy with weekday activity, normal life going on. Simple things, with a surprising power to comfort and satisfy.
Back in the city. For now.
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Lottery ticket vendor on a chilly January morning, Madrid
España, te quiero.
rws 5:22 AM [+]
Comments:
Fascinating stuff. I have bookmarked you on this damn B-explosion thing until I figure out how to add you to my Bloglines.
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