This week was was my first week back at work. And for whatever reason, it’s been half-crappy. I’ve started getting those rashes that mysteriously cleared themselves up when I was away.
And it’s made me miss Spain immensely.
I miss not knowing who I’ll meet next … and when I do meet those people, what stories they have to tell.
I miss the fact that time actually slowed down, so that a day actually felt like a day. There was more length, more weight. I didn’t blink and have the day evaporate. I didn’t have to rush anywhere if I didn’t want to.
I miss not having a routine or people asking things of me.
And most of all – especially today – I missed the heat.
When I go back in my mind and try to think of images that stand out for me … there are so many.
Like the tiny, snowy-haired nun who looked up and smiled at me as I let her pass on a narrow sidewalk in Granada, when I felt at my loneliest.
Or the cute little kids who were with their parents everywhere I went.
Or the views of cities from belltowers, or parks high up.
Or the design and architecture of the buildings in the south.
Or the palm trees. Ah, the palm trees.
If I had the language and the gumption, I’d go back there in a heartbeat. I would go to smaller towns to explore and to beaches to sun myself. Maybe I’d write more and Facebook less. (Wait … who am I kidding?)
I know that, if I had the option, I would have kept going, at least for another week. I wanted to wander and explore, just like all those other backpackers.
This has probably been the first time in the longest time that I haven’t felt complacent about something I’ve done. When people mention travelling, I get excited. I want to hear their stories, and I love it when I pick up pieces of advice for travelling amidst it all.
Now I have to wait until at least next spring to wander again. Maybe this time I’ll get to go with a friend.
But who knows what the next six months will hold?
Anything can happen, right?