It was an interesting day on the streets of Seville, dedicated to the national huelga, or strike. 80% of businesses were closed, most transportation was shut down, and people hovered around major shopping centers and outside government buildings protesting reforms. In Greece they are throwing stones at riot police. That was a long ways from the peaceful chanting in the distance. A helicopter flew by overhead making its rounds and police on horseback trotted down streets and no one was very aggressive.
Things were more hectic for me that morning. After falling asleep early, I woke up around 3am to the sound of a roommate stumbling home drunk, struggling with his pants, before throwing himself into bed. An hour later I heard water hitting the floor outside our bedroom -- only it wasn't water, but piss. The whole outside corridor of our residency was covered, and, remembering days long gone back in the bars, I got the hell out. At my age Charles Dickens was publishing the Pickwick Papers, my father was marrying my mother, and Lionel Messi was leading scorer for the best soccer team in the world; I'm already much too old for this.
By 5am I was on the road for an early run, before the sun even hinted it was coming. I ran down Avenida de la Constitución normally packed with tourists and those strange face-painted entertainers, past the old churches and darkened cathedral. I ran past the Plaza de España where the Andalusian Parliament sits. Then I continued further than I'd ever gone, down streets I'd never seen before, losing all sense of orientation. I kept going: past the football stadium for Betis; through a park and underneath the bridge only seen from high places; along a highway, into the port by docks and cranes; over a few gates with spiky tops locked until the day; finally along the river again, which I grew desperate to find. 90 minutes later I passed the Gold Tower and the Plaza de Armas, and walked up quietly to my door.
My roommate slept on in a tired sleep, making a few quiet cries for help in his dreams. I showered, packed my things, and left for breakfast around 7am, thinking about the paradox that forever seems sprawled out between two beds, and that nothing is as powerful as seeing the physical manifestation of the many things you never want to be.
Things were more hectic for me that morning. After falling asleep early, I woke up around 3am to the sound of a roommate stumbling home drunk, struggling with his pants, before throwing himself into bed. An hour later I heard water hitting the floor outside our bedroom -- only it wasn't water, but piss. The whole outside corridor of our residency was covered, and, remembering days long gone back in the bars, I got the hell out. At my age Charles Dickens was publishing the Pickwick Papers, my father was marrying my mother, and Lionel Messi was leading scorer for the best soccer team in the world; I'm already much too old for this.
By 5am I was on the road for an early run, before the sun even hinted it was coming. I ran down Avenida de la Constitución normally packed with tourists and those strange face-painted entertainers, past the old churches and darkened cathedral. I ran past the Plaza de España where the Andalusian Parliament sits. Then I continued further than I'd ever gone, down streets I'd never seen before, losing all sense of orientation. I kept going: past the football stadium for Betis; through a park and underneath the bridge only seen from high places; along a highway, into the port by docks and cranes; over a few gates with spiky tops locked until the day; finally along the river again, which I grew desperate to find. 90 minutes later I passed the Gold Tower and the Plaza de Armas, and walked up quietly to my door.
My roommate slept on in a tired sleep, making a few quiet cries for help in his dreams. I showered, packed my things, and left for breakfast around 7am, thinking about the paradox that forever seems sprawled out between two beds, and that nothing is as powerful as seeing the physical manifestation of the many things you never want to be.
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