quiet monday

Today is Father's Day (aka Saint Joseph's Day) in Spain, and Madrid has decided to celebrate it as a legit no-work holiday this year. I generally prefer Fridays off (get out of some preschool that way), but three day weekends that don't start on Thursday evening but rather go beyond Sunday emit the illusion of being that much longer. I'm swimming in a sea of leisure and trying to ignore the coast I see in the distance...almost time to dock.

But until then, I think I will enjoy this afternoon seated at my desk that no longer looks out over dozens of adobe Spanish rooftops. After the 35345th time I stubbed my toe on my bedstand a few weeks ago, I decided that the view was not worth it. A few hours of nesting and wa-la, an infinitely spacier bedroom, sans a desk with a view. And in any case, that was never part of the criteria: I've got a room of my own and a room with a view, and I think that should suffice.

So now, I shall finally get to what I'm thinking about this quiet Monday afternoon.

I'm thinking about a one city called Madrid, and a one person named Renée, and how terrible of a couple they make.

Their relationship started long ago, but they were just acquaintances then. Renée knew she wanted to be with Madrid, and although Madrid seemed more or less indifferent, it was faintly calling to her in a way that any city calls to young people nearby. When she finally arrived, she felt the city pulsing inside and out, and began to fall in love.

But falling in love is deceiving. Although incredibly pleasurable and exciting, it is a false design of raging hormones, and therefore not at all related to that which is true love.

(Because the real thing is not perfect and it's filled with flaws and disappointments that are invisible to hormone-blinded eyes.......yet it is strong enough to withstand all.)

So anyway, Renée began to fall in love, but the euphoria didn't last long. There were some things about Madrid that just weren't up to par, and Renée realized that she would never truly come to love it. Madrid, as usual, was pretty indifferent, and in the end said to her:

"Look, I know my air is overly contaminated, and my river is shit, and you are not inspired by the charm I have to offer...but I'm not so bad, and in the end I provide shelter to a lot of nice people, so maybe we can make this work out."

Renée contemplated this and found the idea of compromise sweet. She also found that city or town, coast or mountain, forest or jungle, she could make things work with the companionship of the nice people she knew.

And she lived happily ever after. THE END

Just kidding. She didn't live happily ever after because she lives in a world of planes, trains, and automobiles, of modern-day nomads, and cannot be satisfied in one place nor the other, nor will she ever be, because the greener grass is ever-so-attainable. And the greener grass is never that green when you look up close, so all in all, the story ends like this:

And Renée spent the rest of her years roaming the world, constantly battling ups and downs of ecstasy and despair, because in no one place could she find all the nice people she knew, together. THE END