Since Senator Ted Cruz did not invite my wife and I to flee this long, cold, lonely winter and join him in the comfort and warmth of Cancun, I find myself seeking artificial means to pull myself out of this late winter deep freeze. After a month of shoveling out of snow storms stacked up like breakers during a gale, it is time to raise the white flag of surrender. You win Mother Nature. I am giving a desperate cry of “Uncle”. You are far stronger than this aging back can tolerate any longer.
I feel myself incanting the Beatle’s “Here Comes the Sun” as a tonic to bring some relief to my aching biceps, shredded after moving shovel after shovel of tightly compacted show crystals.
“Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear
Here comes the sun
Here comes the sun, and I say
It’s all right”
Although this Abbey Road classic has not brought any physical relief, it has at least given me hope that the higher inclination of the approaching March sun will eventually expose my lawn that has been patiently lying dormant under the accumulated ice.
Although Ronda, Spain lies at almost the identical latitude of Virginia Beach here in the US, the late August temperature is significantly higher. The humidity of its trans-Atlantic neighbor provides a bit of a filter from the intense sun that we experienced during a family vacation in Andalucía. The unimpeded radiation reflected off of the whitewashed buildings made it feel like we were being sizzled in a microwave. It didn’t take us long to understand why the Spanish quickly close up shop as the sun reaches its midday intensity and seek the shelter of their homes during siesta.
As the sun starts its track lower on the horizon and the temperatures start to mediate, Spain once again rises from its temporary slumber. After completing an extended workday, the people re-emerge to the restaurants with the same energy I greet the morning. Every evening is a celebration of life. Quite honestly, it is an energy for which this long-quarantined body is in desperate need.
I will never forget the evening we experienced at one of the restaurants that cling to the El Tajo Gorge. As we drank an elixir we were told was sangria, we were hypnotized by the swallows performing their aerial acrobatics directly below us. The sound of flamenco being transmitted unimpeded across the gorge from a dancing competition at the festival grounds serenaded us. As the restaurant began to empty, we reluctantly accepted that our magical evening was coming to its conclusion. It would have been a perfect day had we recognized the sign at the parking garage that said “Horario 07:30 -23:30”.
