The Spanish sun bathed the rolling hills in a soft red glow, backlighting the endless blur of olive trees as our train reached escape velocity. In a few hours Maria-Zambrano would welcome us home in a city eternally foreign. Phoenicians, Romans, Moors and Christians have all laid claim to the southern port but the mountains and sea transcend them all. Though we have a place to stay, we direct our cab to a small café where we can indulge in some free wee-fee and perhaps see our family back home in the States.

Three weeks is a long time to be lost in your own thoughts. In some ways it’s a bit like time traveling backwards as the world around you marches onward. The logistics of planning your day, navigating the city, or catching up with friends all require skills more relevant in my childhood when my father’s ink stained hands provided indelible proof that the news of the world had happened and could be folded next to one’s morning coffee. Phones did not ring in our pockets, and maps were our only guides.

And yet, the wireless umbrella of modernity at the café brought us through time and space again. Face to face with my brother, I could show him the plaza where I was sitting, explain that over there is where the great artist was born, and ask him what he was eating for lunch while I finished my dinner.

This was the duality of my time in Spain. I was surrounded by cars I could not drive and streets that could not be driven. I spent most of my days on foot, winding through cobblestones and dancing in la sombra. It never rained and the dry air sucked the moisture out of my laundry hanging off the balcony. By the time I woke from the obligation of siesta I could pull on a fresh shirt and head out again on an insatiable hunt for jamon. That is of course until I got sick of jamon. The Spanish hang the dried legs of pigs everywhere dangling like carcasses with hooves still attached. I would watch as the sinews of muscle were slowly carved off in platters of tapas and think to myself that this was a more convincing demonstration of la fe than any Misa or novena. Bread, olives, beer, wine and jamon consumed three-fourths of my income. The rest went to my wife.

We saw museums and castles, palaces, ports, beaches, and pueblos blancos. I saw good flamenco and bad flamenco and always avoided the sangria. You can always tell a lot about a person by his choice of drink and pitcher of sangria on a table is more proof positive that one is a tourist than if he were to wear a Red Sox hat and Harvard t-shirt. Get the tinto de verano. It’s cheaper and won’t cause the street to wiggle like a mirage in the afternoon sun. Always get the oferta and always eat at Cien Montaditos on Sunday. Actually Wednesday is good too. Hell the place is so cheap it’s good any day, but this is how I came to hate jamon. They put that shit on everything. After too many days of the same staples one needs more variety. Some greens perhaps? Even salads were slathered with mayonnaise and stuffed with some fish or chicken.  If I ever see another ensalada ruso I may start my own revolution!

Oh, and I can do it too; start a revolution that is. I got to hear a full hour long lecture on the psychological manipulation of the masses complete with Freudian references and quotes from Noam Chomsky. This mind you was all while sitting across from a carousel in Jerez in one of the central plazas late in the evening while a supporter of 15M gave a grad school worthy slide show presentation on exactly how to start a revolution. Somewhere between my weak Spanish and the pseudoscience I may have lost my credentials as a worthy activist.

We did have some real drama though that thanks to French intervention did not become a tragedy. It turns out that a very real threat to our safety was foiled when the Spanish police were tipped off about a small group of North Africans who had accumulated enough explosives to blow up a bus. The foiled plot would have had them launch an attack on British Gibraltar during the current Olympic Games, a time frame that perfectly coincided with our trip to the rock.  For good measure we also canceled our planned trip to Tangiers and opted instead for a day at a resort spa in Estepona.

The decision to switch to a Thalasso was an easy one. Our hotel was isolated and filled mostly with German tourists. We stayed one glorious night and ate Parisian inspired meals on a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean. In the morning we checked out but never left. Our bus back to Malaga was not scheduled for departure until the afternoon so we lounged by the pool and walked along the beach picking up seashells and kicking up sand.

That pretty much sums up the entire trip: beach, food, and lots of relaxation. Eventually Ibria threw us 30,000 feet high and over 3400 mile across the earth back to Boston and the reality in time and space to which we belong. For now.