for my rae and nathan, a poem of sorts  (fall 2012)

It is hard to say how much I love walking city streets. Love with the roots of my shoes, with the orange of my hat, with the siren holler of the next corner. Just there- that light, that color, those three, that promise of a story. The requisite soaring of sacramented walls. It would have been more than enough to walk those streets for a week. But instead we feasted as well- Luz/Luna, Lolina, Invisible City, St Michael's Market, Museo del Jamon- names that can feed you. So we ate. Not just with the tongue of course, also the eyes- a hollowed out warehouse, standing on its toes with a reaching, growing wall, a palace filled with cannibalistic demi-gods and very, very bored royalty. A garden of earthly delights. The terror and tragedy of a lost war, the stunning simplicity of long hallways, rock and white. An artist who fought her way from cubism. Thank god. Another bar, full of bulldogs and seductive coats, a cute barista (baristo?) with a good grin and bad teeth. Salty saltiness. Briny brininess. A cascade of yellow beer. Certainly, more than enough. But let me add a perfect road trip- like a well wrapped gift- to a village unvisited and mostly stashed away. Almost too pretty, this village- the houses, the streets, the fountains, the metal building bandaids holding up decades of sighs. The people too, almost too pretty. So we'll add a couple of days of cold, wet grey, a pair of softly feuding brothers, decades of sighs. But no- there is an enchanted garden with marvelous greens and yellows, a brood of perfectly french chickens, and such a warm welcome you could take on the north atlantic with it. Open arms, open table. A slightly demoded jewel box of a house and a cornucopia of wine, breads, coffee, cheese, SALAD- the stuff that makes life good. An olive grove, a farmhouse. I love late fall. Love the branches losing their leaves. The smell of wet, resting earth. The vineyards in tired, resting rows. Perfection. A gift. Forgotten treasure. And because what's a cake without icing- a quick jaunt to a city that held up pretty darn well in the dark, delicious fried eggs on a good host's oilcloth. An old world bordered by mountains. Postcard perfect with snow and excellently banked tunnel turns. Let me add-an iPad as map is only as good as the mapreader and driver. Back to the opaque fishbowl of a room, so comfy to wake up in the light, sea blue. Salty saltiness. Briny brininess. The perfect tang of yellow beer. A couple more good walks, maybe three. A river. A park. A small lake. A bench in the sun. Good talks (the impossible to be trumped kinds). Through the streets, eyes on the sharp edges of buildings against sharp blue skies. It was delicious mes cheries. & much appreciated. Merci.