Antonia

Granada, Spain
Down the street from our little room there is, what seems to be, miles of construction.
Leather on our feet, we decided to venture into the havoc. The corner holds a small Cafe, and it was beyond necessary at twelve in the afternoon, and after seventeen hours of sleep the previous night, to quench our firey passion for chocolate glazed pasteries. Not knowing much Spanish, we strolled up to the glass case, wided eyed and nervous. Thirty or Forty seconds must of passed when a small woman - she musn't be higher than four four, her teeth small and square, thin hair that waved grey, wrinkles on the tip of her pointer - who, in much detail, shared with us the sultry details of every eclair and apple tart. All in Spanish, of course. Three and a half hours of conversations, mostly nodding and smiling, and the occasional French translation, Antonia told us of her husband. She visited him in Tetouan during the War, "j'etait tres jeune, bien sur", and has many children, some who live in America. I'm not sure if Antonia is conscious of saving paper, but she did an excellent job of writing out words in Spanish, then French with maps and numbers on numerous napkins. We drew a map of Michigan, in all its glory, and realized that the body of water beneath the Mackinaw Bridge, seperating the Lower from the Upper Peninsula, is exactly like the Straight of Gibralter between Spain and Morocco. And thus, we spoke of land, and took small bites of our chocolate croissant and sips here and there of Cafe con Leche. She almost forgot her navy over jacket that covered her floral button up shirt. She slipped it on, and we walked to the noise. We all bid our farwells, kissing cheeks and exchanging telephone numbers.
We ended up walking in a circle, our brains exhausted, turned the key in the door of Pension AB, lifted our sheets, and fell asleep.