In Spain, it's the afternoon, though my body's chemistry couldn't tell you so. My time feelers are feeble; my eyes slowly adjust to the distinct layout of a Spanish city... wily avenues, odd names: "Elbow Street," "Street of the Love of God," "Closed Door Plaza" (all real names, translated by Jamie Edlin, copyright 2009). My dreams are scattered, flecked with walking around, faces that I know but are a feature or two off-kilter. Maybe a bit of flying, the mind trying to reconcile itself with two separate sides of the Sargasso, what it perceives now as opposed to what it took in only days ago, on another continent.
Coincidence--otherwise known as things that happen simultaneously to one's amazement--has begun, a dynamic Nico and I have that seems to attract the collision of these cosmic seconds. As I typed "time feelers," for example, Nico was opening her iTunes to play "Prelude for Time Feelers." Call it what you wish.
She sits across from me in the cocina española ("cocina americana" is a good term to know when home hunting here; essentially it means that the kitchen is big), cracking chestnuts. It's a simple thing: save money, buy a ticket, fly, be there. But the impact is far greater than the action of purchase: be there, be bewildered, all the time. It's the same Spain I remember, the same Nicolette, the same Stefan, but time has passed, as it does, and I can feel these new molecules bombarding all of us, bombarding the fountains, the taxis, commercial theater posters, ceramic street plaques, cafes where blue collar viejos waddle in at the close of the day for cañas and sausage or croquetas and talk about god-knows-what because they tend to eat the second half of their words.
It's winter. I'm a little bit cold at all times, but constantly curious. Not a bad place to be. Soon Nico and I will start making stuff. Look out.
