Almería

I decided to slowly transcribe some things I wrote in Europe.
May 14-16
Almería, Spain -
A sandy haven from the overcrowded cities of culture, no teeming tourists down here. We are south, near the sun, and I lounge on the beach surrouned by Spanish, Catalan, French and Arabic. Morocco is a ferry away. I need a moment's peace. Here the beer is cheap and dry, one litre for one euro. A flawless blue cathedral of sky, tanned exotic buildings and bodies dot the landscape. It is a quiet wonderland of sand and smiles. Countries of the sun cannot be blamed for basking in a lazy harmony. I squint and frown through the glare. The sun and sea swallows up the hours. An old wrinkly woman stares ahead, and someone loves this sun-dried tomato. I am crushed under the power of things that wrap the mind in a comfy slow-motion collapse. Infinite distraction is surrendering my senses now.

Climbing the Alcazaba fortress. Cactus, sand-swept hills, tiny lizards and starving bushes living off the land. Where am I in this deserted myth? The city is a random mess of plaster, I don't look at it. A million glittering shards of glass twinkle and sharpen my eyes to the rocky desert around me. Up above, a swarming mass of black birds circle and dive and rise fanatically like mosquitoes. The sun melts the ancient walls of a time so far gone and forgotten. I am parched and perched, feeling accomplished for being high up above it all with JC, a grandiose white statue who welcomes every visitor with hands and arms outstretched. The minutes linger. I stay firmly planted on this ghost fortress that looms out over the world.

On the train to Madrid, tracing and carving our way through a twisted path that cuts the dry rocky hills. I see the backs of heads in front of me. Beside me a scenery collapses and rises endlessly against the window. Tiny green bushes and cactus are fastened to the ground like stubble on an old man's face. My cheek edges closer to the window, trying not to hit it when the world bumps up and down. Not quite mountains, but bigger than hills. The graceful motion of the ground races by. What is passing? An old stony wall. Deserted sandy houses. A small ranch, a few cows or bulls. A white home with blue doors and windows. Mossy cliffs, shadows clipped by the outcroppings. I see my face in the mirror in dark tunnels and try not to recognise it. I am tired. My body and mind exhausted from travel. My eyes flutter open occasionally, comforted by the glimpse of a repeating scene.