here they are, feet in double pluggers that find home in the sand and the yellow light on red blue green orange paint of boats. there is a swamp near san fernando cornered by the carcasses of boats like whale bones, and silver light thick and somehow permeated by sparkly floating things. there is this flamenco sound that is oh so familiar now, oh so present in the stillness of this motion. there is dirt under my feet.
en la provincia de caí... tran tran tran... soy como el pelegrinooo tran tran tran.
in cadiz there is a big window with rusting green cast iron framework and peeling paint. everything is peeling here. the buildings, the walls, the table and bedpost. there is a wheight of antiquity and it is amazing. a little like cuba are these buildings, corroded by the salt air, their ancient splendour only enhanced by the lack of restructuring. everything has simply been left to the hands of time, and time worked away in this place, uninhibited. there are old men walking about, personajes, gitanos with crinkled skin, teenage girls on scooters floating through minuscule streets framed by colourful flower pots, balconies with slippered feet of women, windows with photos of the deceased pope near scarves of Cadiz football club. and the everpresen cerveza from the grocery store at our feet.