A Year in the World Read Online Free PDF

oil, his essential Latin nature, his good smell that made me dizzy, his iconographic representation of the foreign, sophisticated, literary possibilities of the world came drifting through to me in the words of Lorca.
Green, green, how much I want you green . . .
I was not-long married. I loved my brilliant and handsome husband, who came from my same southern background. I was transfixed by the white teeth of Carlos, who had studied at the Sorbonne and at El Escorial in Spain, who spoke Italian and French and German, as well as English and his own Spanish, whose mouth seemed to slide around the words of García Lorca, seemed to lure me toward some wide-open life I did not know. Even now I wonder if his skin simply smelled of the tropics he came from, of mango and salt and lime, or if he doused himself in cologne. I can see his brown fingers holding the book and his intent gaze when he looked up.
Green wind. Green branches . . . how much I want you green . . .
    Tomorrow we go by fast train to Seville.
     
    We are walking across a plaza on our way to sample our first tapas when a genteel-looking older woman, dressed in a blazer and skirt, comes up to us, apologizing for interrupting. What a bad piece of luck she had travelling to Spain and losing her purse on arrival last night for a vacation with friends. The friends have been delayed in Tunisia and won’t be back until late tomorrow. “I have the key to their apartment,” she said, “but unfortunately, I have no money and no food. My friends have been gone two weeks and left nothing in their place except two oranges. Can you help me? You look like such nice people. I am so embarrassed to ask.”
    Ed takes out his wallet and gives her ten euros. She thanks us with dignity, and we walk on, talking about how awful it would be to lose your money and credit cards. We’re looking for the tapas place whose name we’ve written on an envelope. Later, we spot the English woman again, but she does not seem to see us.
    Just after we arrived at noon, the hotel called their doctor, who came to the room and gave us prescriptions for antibiotics, one for me just in case I caught the infection, one for Ed’s sinus pain. At the pharmacy, Ed is given a cup of water with his pills so he can start improving right away. Within hours he begins to feel energy seeping back into his veins. “I’m cured, as of tomorrow,” he announces. “Isn’t it odd how anything can throw you when you travel, an earache, a lost Visa card, a blister, luggage gone astray. You forget you’ve arrived in a place you’ve always wanted to see.” By the time we find the tapas bar, he’s elated enough to order so many tapas that we never go out to dinner at all. This Spanish rhythm will take some getting used to: the
tapeo
(tapas crawl from bar to bar) in early evening, then dinner never before ten. I like tapas because appetizers on a menu tempt me more than main courses. We try potatoes with a spicy mayonnaise and ham, marinated anchovies, chunky pork loin slices with a green pepper sauce, spinach with bacon and walnuts, and some mixed fried fish, all saucer-sized portions. The white wine tastes like sherry. The waiter tells me that when white wine is aged in
barrique de Jerez
, it picks up the sherry tones. I ask for something not from Jerez barrels, and the Muga, a white Rioja, he brings is light and spicy, great with the white
torta del casar
cheese, which is soft enough to eat with a spoon. Even though we are no longer hungry at all, there’s a vague dissatisfaction. Did we have dinner or not? Tonight we’re too weary to care.
    We fall into the big bed at the Don Alfonso XIII without a thought of when we will awaken and what must be done then. Tired at home, I’m usually overloaded with obligations and the prospect of tomorrow promises more of the same. But
sprung
, out in the world with a small stuffed suitcase and a notebook, tiredness promises big baths and closed draperies to shut out early light,