Then and Now

When I grow old, I want to hang my linens from a rope in the Albayzin.

We have left Granada, but only for now, with a soft, and most faint smile, with memories of eventide piano recitals and yellow mangos in November. From the terrace, the city is a sea of sequins, distant and sparkling.

Walking through a market is like seeing the entire world; the withered and pungent, the doubt and colour, the sweaters and perspiration, the conversation and autumn fruits.

Orjiva is quaint and beautiful. Being in the valley, the morning muffles the church bells with mist, and makes the mountains appear as holograms. Living in such a place is like infinitly nestling in your mothers arms, warm and quiet. Surrounding the land are trees with ornamnets of orange, of pomegranate, walnut and almond, and of course, the small, but intricate olive. The colour of leaves on olive trees reminds me of sage, chalky and fresh. I love every part of the day here, the coolness of dawn, the heat of siesta, the hush of evening, and the piercing dark. From our little yard, you can see Orion's belt, and in the distance, the light illuminating from street lamps. The bells ring at every hour, but somehow time feels lost up here. We are not busy, but rather, conscious of the day and useful with its time. Working with your hands, the intricacy of our thumbs, of our pointers, the usefullness of our bodies as a whole, is so very complex. To share your strength, however much it may be, on land, and in dirt, is so very important. In the evening we crack walnuts from the backyard and saute them with honey. The least I can say now, is that life here is yummy. Our sheets have small prints of yellow flowers, and before I go to bed, I look forward to marmelade at breakfast.