Train

Yesterday the eight hours of train travel from Lisbon north to Vigo, Spain, passed unremarkably.  Laurence Sterne might say it would little profit the Reader to be served the narrative of such travel.  (But he wrote Was I in a desert, I would find out wherewith in it to call forth my affections--If I could not do better, I would fasten them upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect myself to.)  My palm-sized copy of Sterne´s A Sentimental Journey, purchased second-hand from a shop in Lisbon, was remarkable enough for me.  Beautiful introduction by Virginia Woolf.

So now I´m in Spain in a modern apartment among other such buildings in this port city, home of two old friends from grad school.  Here I´ll stay for a while, although I already miss old Portugal and will likely dip back down there during the next few weeks.