This morning we got up at sparrow-fart (or the fart of whatever it is that lives in the Pyrenees) and drove through winding mountain roads, into roads that looked not unlike those around Berri and Loxton and Renmark and down into the Barcelona airport where we dropped the car with no new scratches and half an hour to spare. With the added bonus of no navigational arguments. Except at the end there where the mister lost his ability to follow arrows, but by then he had been driving for nearly five hours.
It wasn’t super easy finding our way to the apartment what with the whole collect the key from the office which is in a completely different location to the apartment. And then of course, the walk was a teensy bit further than it looked on the map, but the short metro ride we did take was a complete hassle on account of me having broken my own Golden Luggage Rule. Never Pack More than You Can Carry. I don’t know how my suitcase got so heavy. I bought myself a shirt a drink bottle in Torla, and there’s a tin of apricots we never got around to eating yesterday, and it is a large tin, but apart from that I can’t see too much that I wouldn’t normally have. On top of which it’s summer, so there’s no heavy clothes or shoes. I’m taking it all rather personally, but the mister is over the conversation.
The apartment is itsy bitsy, but it’s lovely and light and faces the back of the building, down onto the yards of the rich people and into the windows of others’. Perfect for a
busybody like me person with an enquiring mind like my own.
I could do with a coffee. The roadhouse where we stopped only sold the stuff out of a machine. 65 cents, doesn’t give change, always gives sugar. I find sweet coffee or tea almost undrinkable, so I held the cup as still as I could trying to stop the sugar from dissolving while I drank only the top half of the cup. My body is trained for a stronger caffeine dose than the one it got today and now it’s five o’clock now which for me, is too late if I want to get a decent night’s sleep. If I drink sixty five glasses of water between now and eight o’clock I should avoid a headache.
I thought about going out to get a packet of coffee, but I don’t feel like disturbing youngest from his reading.
I really should at least look over my notes, remind myself of the past tense conjugations, the difference between por and para. That’s what I’d do if I really wanted to get the most out of the next two weeks. Now that I’m here, I’m a little mournful, sorry for all the Spanish I let myself lose. But I’m happy too, excited to be back amongst it again. I think it’s okay if I sit quietly for another hour or so. An hour now isn’t going to make much difference. Not in the scheme of things.
The mister and our eldest boy have gone off to check out the lads’ summer camp site. Youngest is exhausted, and saw a chance to grab Redwall to himself. I’m pleased, of course, that the lads love to read so much and so widely, but the bickering over books is giving me and the mister the serious shits. The whole day seems to be filled with arguments over who was reading what and when and who picked it up after whoever put it down. So it’s lovely to sit in the silence of one boy reading, watching the curtains blow in the breeze, listening to the clink of neighbours’ cutlery against their china and dreaming of the Spanish I’m determined to reclaim.