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, forever.
2 comments:
To think any place is easily known is beyond me. To think a place can ever be known is beyond me as well. Perhaps I was born geographically upset, and geographically upsetting for that matter, and aren't we all, what with all that traveling happening in our veins and arteries and nerves and guts and what have you as we move through time and space from here to there or not. What a mysterious journey, a coursing into the unknown, no matter where we are. Here, I raise my cup! There, my cup is, no static vessel, as it, and every process that raised it, now journeys with you and whoever else reads this. Cheers!
Beautiful! Thanks, Brenda.
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