Rain in Spain.
It has been overcast and raining for two and a half days now, and the gloom has set in- outside and in the flat. I am alone –my friends having gone to Valencia- and I sit in front of the window watching the rain come down. It rains differently here than at home. Here it comes down in torrents lasting a half hour or so, the water pouring down, carrying bits of flotsam, the gutters overflowing and gurgling down the street-a very melancholic sound. Everything is quiet, no one is on the street until the torrent is over, then they peek out furtively and hurry on their errands quickly before the next torrent. I sit and watch this for a long time until the rain eventually lessons and then I rush out too- out of the depressing atmosphere inside. The streets I choose to walk down feel abandoned, the shops are shuttered, the little gay Tapa bars closed, their deck chair piled carelessly inside the tiny bars. Even the market is closed and the square is empty of it’s usual crowds. The narrow streets are dripping wet and shaded in greys. As I walk along listening to my footsteps, I feel I am in a black and white movie circa 1939 or 1940- a heroine on a mission. It is cold and the wind gusts strongly through the tunnel- like streets and squares. I am wearing all the clothes I can-pajamas under my slacks, several shirts, wool pullover, wool cardigan and my new swish raincoat with the high collar, a bright red wool scarf wound round my throat. I do not wear my purple crochet beret. I have a new umbrella with Barcelona written all over it. I walk to the beach and watch the waves crashing against the rocks. The wind is powerful and nearly pushes me over. I decide to seek shelter and find a small coffee shop and order a cappuccino. The waitress speaks to me in French. I obviously do not look like an American tourist. As I sit there I reflect on why I am in Barcelona. Why was it so important for me to be in Europe? Why do we in North America desire to come to Europe? . Europe is not easy. It is hard. Every time I come I am reminded of it- how hard it is. We have to walk miles, we have to figure out the complex transit system, figure out the language- mostly unsuccessfully- and we are always dressed wrongly and eat at the wrong time. But we still come. For me it is necessary to satisfy my soul. Why? I don’t know- perhaps because we are searching for the homeland of our parents? But my parents came from Bassarabia not Spain I ponder on this as the rain pelts outside. I find no solution to my reflections and decide to leave the subject where it belongs – in the unanswerable void. I call for the bill and walk home -not much wiser- but know that I feel satisfaction in my soul. This is how I spend my days in Rainy Spain. And so I again, dear readers, say Adios from rainy Spain. Your traveling blogger Laurie.
