This trip has been a real journey. That's a pretty trite sentence. But it seems that journey seems nowadays to be a metaphor for so many damn transformations, involving the involuntary dragging of innocent readers through the literary sludge that well, perhaps I'm doing the entire world (yet again) a favour by bridging a trip and a journey.
Anyway, this journey of mine has had days of education, days of hard yards, days of plodding through this and that city learning about this or that neighbourhood and how everything and everyone in all places are special after all. But after the days of walking many miles, there was Spain.
The six days in Spain were unhurried, filled with food and food for thought, filled to the brim with time, like the long warm Saturdays I wait for all week. The conversations were great and the trip slowly built up towards a visit to the greatest palace I shall see. Adolfo, Isabel, and on the trip to Granada, Marie Laure as well, deserve the credit for making it so special. Even Barcelona, tacked on as a guilty afterthought in my plans, has refused to die, popping into my tired senses with the lunatic vitality of Antoni, an artist who although
professing religiosity, seems inspired by the Devil as much as by nature.
Sent from my iPod
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