Here I go again, making a big deal, in my mind, about a simple departure. At 6:10 at Sevilla bus station, I’m an hour and 20 early, aka right on time. Dark out, light rain.
I’m heading back to Tavira (which
I’d left for Sevilla 29 days ago), thinking that a smaller place, with that
long island beach, will be a good resting spot before Lisbon.
But why rest. I’ve noticed in the
last couple of days that while it is good to have arrived in a place, Sevilla,
I know a little, I’ve been cruising on the known—falling back on it, even. In
terms of my writing practice on this trip, familiarity breeds stasis, and less
writing, as if I need to be geographically upset to get any work done. I’ll
have to watch out for this in Tavira, a smaller place so easily known, where
I’ve spent four days already.
Farewell, Andalusia--about which I’d known nothing except that I had to cross it to get to Morocco. Then I
met flamenco, and Lorca, and sherry, and the beautiful people and cities of
Sevilla, Cádiz, and Jerez de la Frontera which I’ll know now, in my way,