It’s six degrees. Soft spanish voices click and roll, and the language takes on a dreamier quality. There is no smell. Pages flip in a magazine. Are our senses more sensitive in the morning? The quiet seems respectful. We enjoy it.
Renfe les da la bienvenida a everyone in the train, but their chime and prerecorded announcement are too loud for the soft morning. I am leaving Jaén, for a several thousand kilometre round trip which will take me two and a half days. There is strong woody perfume, and looking around me I recalculate: aftershave.
A stunning sun rises in the east as we swoop round the city of Jaén and her southern mountains. Backlit clouds appear orange. I feel pleasantly tired, and want to move slowly so not to break the emotion. Jaén is lost for overlapping hills. It seems too early in the morning to write about the real world. I’d usually sit back and enjoy this sensation.
Cacti and high pines live side by side at this station, Mengibar Artichuela, and dew hangs from the trackside wires. The louder voices which had arrived with the sun are once again more silent. In Spain this grey is a phase, to be escaped inevitably by hours or distance. There is no distance long enough to achieve the same feat in Scotland.
It’s nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. Last night I created a wordpress account. The plan is to write more, draw more and reflect more. I read advice about how to live your life better: do what you love, live in the moment, and I have changed my life direction substantially, but it seems to take a bit of work to stay on course. Money being a bit of a concern. Health, eating and sleeping being others. Topics which I’d like to explore:
how to improve nutrition
ways to live mortgage free
re-learning to drive
The task list was obviously a bit of a stretch for that time in the morning.
I have now been asleep and it is is 11.20, due into Madrid Chamartin at 12.30. I’m glad for my ability to sleep in different places now. How to describe the different sensation of enough sleep. It’s felt most keenly in the mind, but the body although contracted and achey feels also in some way renewed. My main task in Madrid is to find a fork, spoon or eating implement, and of course go to the airport.
Now i’m in fancy terminal 4, yellow and wood and a bit of the lloyds building going on too. Very nice. The green salad is 6 euros 50. I can’t bring myself to buy it. I need to be in terminal one but there is no hurry and I’ve just bought quite an expensive coffee and water combo so I’d best make the most of it.
I’m in Caffriccio where the management don’t trust their employees to count coins and there is a money beast, which swallows cash and spews your change at a level designed to test even the lightest of travellers’ baggage coordination skills.
In Atocha, I had used the 60 euro bathrooms and ate my onion curry. With my hands. Which caused less interest among the Spanish than i’d expected. I felt more self conscious beginning the process, which, with my trusty tiffin involved tipping some of the onions onto the cold damp rice. The doing brings new confidence. You have to own the action.
The same tiffin attracted attention later in the evening from the Southern Rail attendant who sold me my (26th ?) new oyster card… (I have about 3 sitting at home) at Victoria station. He reminisced about rice, curry and dhal in his home in Kerala, as did I.
At Bethnal Green I saw the familiar sights, as well as noting the inevitable London-speed changes the last nine months have brought to Cambridge Heath Road. I was delighted to see the 106, not because I will travel on her, but as she had been a constance presence in my London life after India, regardless of where I’ve been based. I shouldn’t have started watching Ramsey’s kitchen nightmares on the hotel TV. This is exactly the sort of procrastination I’m talking about.