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Friday, September 28, 2007 This morning dawned overcast, overnight showers tapering off. House quiet after the muted roar of heavy rain on the roof. Gray light swelled slowly, windows remained dark until close to seven. Air mild, clouds cleared enough to allow patches of blue sky on the ride into town. Had no caffeine fix before getting myself out, drifted foggily through the sweaty activity at the gym. Near the end of my workout a woman I see there now and then asked how I was doing, I responded, smiling, "Slowly making my way toward consciousness." "What are you complaining about?" she said, seemingly irked by my answer. I answered simply, bemused, "Not complaining at all -- you asked me how I was." She didn't hear it, having continued on, apparently slightly miffed. I shrugged, resumed the slow, contented slog toward waking life. (To the world at large: please don't ask how I'm doing if you don't want to know how I'm doing.) Gave myself the decadent, post-sweaty-time gift of getting a massage, easing me into the day nicely. Finally returned to real life, took care of errands, methodically clearing the deck of things needing to done before Tuesday's return to Madrid. (You heard me.) Small town life carried on all around, I drifted through it, tasks passing easily, quickly, one by one. Drove to Montpelier's working-class twin city, Barre, to pick up a pair of pointy boots left for re-heeling at the only local shoe repair shop. Stopped for a cup of espresso and a muffin at a hippyish lunch joint/market, mouth happy as bits of food and sips of caffeinated joy juice passed through it. Picked up boots, watching one smiling, birkenstocked woman ahead of me deal with the kind of personal fog I'd waded through earlier, dropping things, bending to retrieve them, hitting head on counter as she straightened up. Nothing dislodged the smile, she finished up, disappeared. Another woman picked through leather wallets piled up on the counter, on sale. She maintained a running monologue, for the life of me I couldn't make out a word she said. The guy behind the counter seemed to know her, seemed to understand her, answered some of her mumblings with matter-of-fact kindness. Returned home along two winding two-lanes, sky autumnally moody, dark gray clouds occasionally allowing soft flashes of afternoon sunshine. Hillsides continue the shift from warm season greens to reds, oranges, yellows. Not as intense a show as some other years, maybe the result of many weeks of little rain, but still pretty. Occasionally leaves come down from one particular tree as if it had suddenly decided to let go, bits of pale color falling across the road in a way that made them look like big breeze-blown snowflakes. Ahead of me, fallen leaves whirl up in the air in the wake of a van moving at a good clip. Back home, I take advantage of the pause in the day's showers to cut a bunch of lawn, crickets hurrying to get out of the way as the mower moves through grass liberally sprinkled with yellow leaves. When I shut the engine off, motor drone is replaced by the music of critters in the grass, crickets and their cousins -- the late-season soundtrack for this part of the world. The last Friday in September. Warm season slipping off into memory, cold season slowly edging its way in. España, te echo de menos. rws 3:11 PM [+]
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