Hurry/Wait

Someone is waiting
Two someones actually
My love
And I
Waiting
For my visa to come through
So I can move to America
And we can be together
It's partly why I'm walking 780km across northern Spain
"Pacing in a straight line"
As Aaron's dad put it
Waiting in London I was going stir crazy
My life
Just a game of waiting
Filling time

We had optimistically booked a ticket for March
The visa didn't arrive
The plane left without me
And I sobbed in frustration
London stayed miserably cold and bleak
I worked hard
I spent time with friends
I tried to embrace London
I hoped to land an acting job
Nothing came
I felt lonely and frustrated
Dispirited, disinterested, and disenchanted

I got the idea to do the Camino again
This time solo
This was for me
It would fill the time
In a positive and productive way

I'm walking
My feet are sore
I'm meeting wonderful people
I'm breathing in the Spanish landscape
It's so beautiful
Every step
An affirmation that
I'm here
And a step closer
To my love

Hurry visa
I'll wait
I'll pace across Spain until you arrive
And give thanks to the universe
That I can be here

Buen camino
Don't stop walking
The journey
Is the destination
Is life
Is love and joy and heartbreak and beauty
And being

The end.

Lanzarote

Despite my pasaporte de España

I’m not fluent in the language

An 8-week course and a little time in Spain 

Do not a fluent Spanish speaker make

But I can follow a conversation

Catch words I recognize

Get the gist

Churros con chocolate for breakfast

Now there’s a language I understand! 

The energy of the island

The blanco of the houses

My titos, relatives who lift my heart and soul and make me laugh

Spoil me rotten

Feed me up with tortilla y papas arugadas con mojo

The onions and garlic and olive oil

National signifiers of Spanishness

The essential ingredients to any good meal

(Remember standing in the markets in Islington

And the three musicians

Who played flamenco music

Were set up next to the olive oil stand

And you thought that was very appropriate

The glorious delicious cliche of it)

And from the tiny aeropuerto

You can fly to Nuremburg or Madrid or Varsovia or Gran Canaria or Gatwick or Amsterdam

And you think no matter how long you’ve been away from

Your island home

Far away in another hemisphere

The novelty of being able to travel to such destinations for a weekend

Will never quite wear off

And you’re entirely grateful

That so much of the world is your oyster

And you can understand enough to say

Gracias. 

The end. 

Chestnuts Roasting

What on earth possessed a human to look down at a chestnut pod and think

Hmm, I’m going to crack open that there spiky pod and then I’m going to take out what ever is inside and I’m going to throw it on a fire and crack it open again and eat the yellowy white flesh in the middle

Because truly, chestnuts are a strange item

And it is hard to imagine that you didn’t eat your first roasted chestnut until you were 24 and walking the Camino in rural northern Spain

Because by that time in history chestnuts had already been reduced to a cliche

Swooney tunes sung by swooney men at Christmas time in the northern hemisphere

Entire worlds away from your birthplace

And at 24 you are walking through a chestnut forest with your beloved

And you wonder if the chestnuts on the ground all around you are edible

And you exclaim I want a roasted chestnut! 

And you round a corner and there are Giuseppe and Maria collecting chestnuts

And Giuseppe calls out to you

And you start chatting

And he talks about the niños in the area lighting fires at this time of year

And you and your beloved shake your heads and tsk-tsk those naughty niños because where we come from children who light fires in the forest at the end of summer are asking for trouble

But this is northern rural Spain

And autumn time is chestnut time

And Giuseppe lights a fire and throws a couple of chestnuts into it

And you stare around nervously wondering if it is ok to be in the middle of the forest with old Spanish men lighting fires

And then he gives you a smoldering chestnut

And you peel it

And it burns your fingers

And then you taste your first roasted chestnut

And it is like a hot potato

It is like a hot potato with just the right amount of butter

It is amazing

It is heaven

Suddenly the cliche makes total sense  

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire

And two years later you are at home in Ashfield

And your beloved is gone

But you have a bag of chestnuts from the markets

And you’ve roasted them in the oven according to your uncle’s advice

And the smell of it makes your heart yearn for another time

And you peel the first chestnut

And the heat of it surprises you

And then you bite into it

And the taste is as blissful as heavenly as wondrous as you remember

And you remember the time and place and happenings of your first chestnut

And you smile

And you wonder how it is it all began