When I walked in the door the men at the entrance to the dining room turned with prepared expressions that dissolved as they recognized my face. I stepped down from the entrance and they put their arms on my shoulders smiling and told me my friends were sitting in the back. Three tables had been put together--a decent banquet board for the small restaurant on Cava Alta which seems to remain invisible to all but a few discerning denizens--and two open bottles were just being set down among wide crystal bowls on slender stems.
11.13.2009
FIESTA: Al Fin
WAKE UP. TOM WAKE UP. Erik shakes me out of REM and before the blood even begins to flow he's telling me we have to leave. His lips are blue. He's shaking. "I'm freezing, man. I can't stay here anymore." Without a word I rise and pack my things, feeling the cold myself now penetrate my jacket to the bone. We're luckier than we know to be dry, but it doesn't occur to us breathing fog on the riverbank at dawn in late September northern Spain.
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