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Thursday, December 06, 2007 It's a holiday in Spain, el Día de la Constitución, the barrio has been waking up slowly. Above, high, thin clouds render the sky milky blue. Sunlight falls between buildings into narrow streets, areas of shadow cut by slanting shafts of light. As morning gives way to early afternoon, the light takes on the quality of golden mist, delicately thick in the manner of the air around a waterfall. I walk to the nearby plaza, buy the paper, set course toward one of the few local coffee joints that will be open on a día festivo. I approach an intersection of two slender streets, a 40ish male cuts across in front of me. Wool hat, pipe in one hand, other hand thrust into a jacket pocket. Talking to himself loudly, in the middle of a wry monologue about something I couldn't catch. Not angry, but not exactly placid either. Walking quickly, disappearing down a sidestreet, voice briefly lingering in the air then fading. I arrive at the cafetería, find a spot at the counter. One of the workers gives me a thumbs up, points inquiringly at the espresso maker, I nod. Food, caffeine, something to read, conversation all around. When I've finished up and stepped back out into the street, the angle of the sunlight has changed, more people are about. A Thursday in December, local life slowly getting underway. On to the day. España, te quiero. rws 6:25 AM [+]
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