Tiny Moments

In terminal three, gate L10, shameless eavesdropping turned to meeting, turned to conversation. Lois, with his dark Spanish hair, pale eyes and sexy accent beamed at Brian, a CPS teacher with smart glasses and an infectious laugh. "We are getting married!" They say with huge matching grins. They would be traveling through Spain with a hundred if their closest friends and family in celebration. As they and their friends happily shared in minibar sized Bacardi toasts, those of us around them greedily soaked in their radiating warmth. Each journey begins with love.


When Saint James, with sunscreen smudged on his nose and a little dog in tow, sits down next to you, it would wise for any pilgrim to sit up straighter and listen. Three blocks from Chamartin train station and four hours until the next train, found me sitting on a park bench in a tiny working class square. A weak morning sun trickled through the leaves of the trees as a woman proudly swept the street in front of her book shop. Old men bought her newspapers and sat on neighboring park benches for a morning read and chat. The sound of metal broke the air as the frutería and charcuteria raised their storefront shutters. Pigeons cooed and clustered as cafe workers set chairs on the sidewalk for the coming patrons. A harmonica softly filled the courtyard, the player unseen. Stodgy Spanish men walked obscenely small fluffy dogs, occasionally using the pups to start conversations with wayward tourists.(Spanish men are wily that way!) Santiago sat down next to me, his little dog sporting a tiny pink ribbon, and we talked of soccer, New York, gun violence, a changing Madrid and the camino. A teacher of science and math, dear Santiago had very definitive views on each subject. With a mention of the missing pilgrim, Santiago, very firmly, told me to have care. And with a backwards wink, he was off to feed his pup breakfast.

A train car, empty but for one peregrina, a teenager with hot pink headphones and a police officer, the tinny sound of a movie playing though his phone. apparently, he does not see us as a threat. The train moves smoothly and silently north, eating through vast fields of gold speckled with the occasional brilliant flash of poppy red. Large windmills turn calmly and endlessly over tiny villages surrounding crumbling churches. The mountains are waiting in the distance. Taxis, planes, subways and trains... My ass is numb and my feet are itching to walk. 



Irun with her beautiful waterways and tall stately trees did not fare so well under the rule of Franco throughout the civil war and WWII. However, she has recovered beautiful and a Saturday night is full of life. Laughter and conversation and the clinking of wine glasses echo off church walls as happy children play soccer in the courtyards. A cool night sky is flickering with the lighting of a coming summer storm. As the resulting booms shake Irun, children shriek with fascinated terror. 
The rain begins.