Volver

THE SUN ALIGHTS on green leaves and grass across the street in front of the plaza set in and shaded where I sit in the back in a café that shall not be named. The morning is about to end and people outside are walking in every direction. But I have finally stopped moving.

48 hours ago roughly a bus carried me eastward across dry, thirsty plains of sun-baked earth and sparse pale green vegetation. Earlier that bright Saturday morning I had left Lisbon - that sunny city by the sea where red roofs collide
and conspire in the small valley that gives out onto the glimmering field of blue-green water. Three days I spent there: slipping on the small, shiny white and black square-shaped stones of the streets and sidewalks; cooling my self in the semi-dark rock rooms of cafés with a local artist over espresso and beer; reclining on hilltop terraces with vinho verde and squinting out over the red clay roof city below; getting high with Lisboan cooks outside bars wherefrom traditional music called Fado spilled out in the form of Moorish moaning similar but more beautiful than Flamenco, alongside tram tracks on streets so steep you fear to fall backward as you walk down leaning against the grade. The last stop of a holiday incredible, but a holiday that had to end. At this point, any more time spent was putting off all that needed to resume, all that needed to be born again...

The day before I landed in Lisbon I was sitting sipping iced americanos in the West Village, reading, writing, and stealing glimpses of the denizens - glasses with thick frames, plaid shirts, hangover stubble, visually expressed abhorrence of the comb; these alongside pressed oxford shirts and cardigans, sparkling earrings and semi-large watches; these alongside girls with bright flowers tatooed on their shoulders. And the whole room smelled of the celebration of delicious coffee. Nearly three days in The City. Days spent walking (I finally crossed the Bkln Bridge by foot, followed by its very pretty but much less pleasant Manhattan sister), and revisiting my favorite downtown spots: Uniqlo "japanican"clothing store, café-bar on Bleecker and Broadway and TwoBoots pizza for the best slice on earth, just across the intersection. Nights spent on my friend Rob's rooftop drinking craft beer and listening to old bluesmen on the radio while looking up at some of the world's most amazing buildings. My last stop before leaving the United States behind once more.

I had come from my parents home - the beautiful house nestled deep in the forests of pastoral Woodstock Connecticut, where activities include scenic drives on long and windy two-lane roads without sidewalks, streetlights, or police patrol; or afternoon tea at my mother's shop listening to the voices of old women while drinking some of the most pleasant beverages on Earth. Four dogs, two parents, one uncle, and several old friends. Dinner at local restaurants where the food knocked me out - too good for what I'm used to, too big for two meals. Candlelit nights on the porch after those Tudor meals sipping Amontillado, Chardonnay, and martini creations with French and Italian Vermouths or Chartreuse telling stories and listening to the sounds of the invisible night. Cocktails and sandwiches with my father, shopping and fish salads with my mother. Drinking games with my friends, my good good friends who flew and drove and sailed to see me. A birthday dinner with the richest German food and Spanish wine that could be found. Driving. Sleeping. The fields, the forests. Four dogs, two parents, one uncle, and many old friends.

The time spent wonderful in the country with my fathers was punctuated by two side-journeys. One to old home Boston. More friends, city streets and squares and sights, old hangouts, music on the bay. The place that sat stirring in my mind for nearly a year, it was so good but too short. And then the great flight out west, manifest destinating all the way to the house of mi sista. The best trip I've ever had in that direction, sans excepción. A week of walking, talking; eating, drinking, inking; watching, listening; loving. It was quite literally impossible to stop enjoying myself. I don't often get to see my sister, and I don't know when I will again, but I'll never stop loving her and going back in my head to the week we shared in August. A party for her boyfriend Dave kicked it off with beans scorching everyone's mouth yet none could stop feasting and we were left full for days. Visits to her bars and cafés for the freshest, most exceptional coffe, cocktails, and beer with the kindest, most familial, and prettiest of folk. Walks through rain forests, bad movies, good movies, tattoos and a concert on the lawn that left us standing there, holding each other tighter and longer than ever before. Sleeping with her dog, my main man Imani to whom I will return some day not far to join forces and take the land by storm in cadillac convertible. We planned it one night after all were aslumber. A tough time leaving, a need to return.

All this, o my brothers, after the most incredible month of my life alone, walking across the land and, well, we'll save that for another time...

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So now it is that the turning of my world slows down a bit and I situate myself back in my home here in Madrid. Work resumes and friends flock together again. This morning I struck out three times in a row looking for a suitable spot to sit and write. Frustration mounted in my former neighborhood where I felt like a fool running back and forth along the same streets and sidewalks. I started to sweat and curse under my breath. But my inward tirade was interrupted by some Italian tourists who walked past several people to intercept me and extract directions to local gardens, which I gave. Just minutes later, down the same sidewalk, two Spaniards with suitcases waited for me to walk past in order to find their way to the station, which I showed. And now I sit, across from the leaves and grass now seeming slightly more yellow in the sun, welcomed by the girl at the counter and feeling like finally, after four countries, five coasts, over fifteen cities and 6500 miles, I am home.