Ubrique

Greetings,

it was good to be on the street again. he got off the bus in ubrique just after 2. the ride down from Graz was through a long glacier valley flanked by sharp dolomite gray mountains. these stones were endemic in the area.

where the romans marched. where they set up small encampments between U and G. their road was a pale shade as moss and grass gradually took back the land but the road was clear enough in places. looking close enough you could see the footprints of old sandals, feel tired legs, aching muscles, hear screams of the wounded, the cries of thirst. it was a desperate time and they were in a desperate place. they marched on and on and on. they were miles from rome.

they imported everything. they carried their lives with them on the endless twisting stone road.

everything was closing down in U and people on bikes and taking bus #11 were heading home. school was out and mothers escorted thier kids across bridges and through their young life. the old people on their crutches, their beady eyes piercing the stranger; the man with a white beard, strange clothing, black pack, the movement. he was an outsider and passing through.

it was excellent to be anonymous. to be feeling broken erratic pavement under erractic steps. no hesitation in finding the up direction on the internal compass.

it was a small spanish city with tight apartments, flowers, laundry and residents. yellow cranes constructed new worlds.

his images took over. the narrow old part of the town was up the hill. romans came here, lived here and it was easy enough to see their settlements, the remnants of their civilization. near water they built their baths, their public washing areas.

he moved along the highest area below the mountains which faced west. the settlement had been tucked into the end of the valley. smart.

at the base of the mountains the homes and roads were narrow and old. whitewashed as always, they reflected the heat. every home he passed featured a cracked kitchen window and the sound of clattering utensils and eating.

he passed old women hunched over their bowls of soup in the small dark interiors. the doors were open. small black dogs barked. people stared. he found a fine discarded piece of bamboo and used it for a walking stick, pounding on walls, stone streets, trash cans, fences, tapping the ground.

he wandered to the top of it all and down. he'd arrive at a fork in the narrow way and point his magic bamboo stick first one way and then the other asking, “Which way?" and the stick danced in the direction he could take so he did. he wandered for hours. delightful.

Peace.