We consume Utrecht and Amsterdam. Our noses feast on the lilies in the flower market. Our mouths chomp Oliebollen. Our eyes cover and devour the canals. The Netherlands is in our bellies and shooting from our pores. We're still filled with it, alive with it, living off the memories it provided. We're in a deep love affair. Deep. Poor Ireland will never be enough.
In Girona everything is quirky, from the train car in which we eat our crepes to the long stairs up and up and up to nowhere. People drop things 50 feet from their windows to waiting hands below. A man sells me the most beautiful necklace for 8 euros. The Romans built a wall around this city to protect it but Sean and I jumped on and above and through the wall and ransacked Girona of her goods and memories.
On the road to Barcelona we buy prosciutto, crusty bread, cheese, crackers, spicy sausage for Sean's ill throat and airy cookies with coconut, walnuts and tiny bits of chocolate. Sean communicates his head cold in charming Spanish to a woman at the Farmacia and receives a box of orange effervescence for his efforts and money. Once in the car, I rip the chorizo with my teeth into pieces and set them on cheese and crackers for the sick driver. We arrive and drink sangria and drink sangria and drink sangria and arrive.
Valencia clementines. My favorite food? Yes. A man my dad works with left a box in our hotel room. We simply happen upon everything here- the street our hotel is on, the Mercado Central, the silk market, the most delicious candied popcorn. A serendipitous city for Sean and me, though it fails to take his sickness away. He has no color in his cheeks for two days.
No color still in Pisa, but we eat ravioli and rabbit, sleep well and in the morning Sean tells me he wants to climb the Tower. We do. And from the air and view he gets his color back. I take pictures of it. The camera loves you, Sean.
All the pics are at the flickr site, so go on and click that link to the right. Go on.
No comments:
Post a Comment