the chores i half-finish: laundry,
dishes, dog walks. the list is
half crossed out. doesn't count.
i'd be half a lover if you'd
let me. fake a headache every
two nights. put out the light.
20090216
a.coastal.road.in.central.spain.
It was all happening again, or at least, I was convinced of time's duplicity. There I was in a two story apartment building set up in Southern Spain, in a room overhanging the parking lot and a spiral staircase leading up into the centre of my living room, like a giant drill bit boring its way in. The name of the town is unimportant and forgotten. I wasn't even sure what I was doing there, but one thing was for certain: it was a set up.
And was it the government? Mine? Theirs? Am I actually a Spanish citizen? What year is this anyway?
In any case, the guard at the parking lot gatehouse doesn't like my looks and I think he needs to stop smoking. I'm positive he's keeping tabs on me with that notebook of his, and so what? What have I done.
And just like that, I don't what sets it all off, but I'm under house arrest. Maybe they told me via letter, sealed and stamped. Or a phone call. What drove it home was the guard's twitchiness as I inched down the spiral staircase to the ground, before changing my mind and footing my way right back up.
After some time in the apartment, long enough for night to have settled in sleeplessly, as I lounged around looking at the parking lot and waited to see if dawn would bring any revocation of my arrest, a small car or motorcycle collided into one of the columns supporting my overhanging apartment. Nothing collapsed, but the driver sprung out of the metal and ran up the stairs into my apartment telling me that my window of escape had come. I suppose she must have simultaneously taken out the gatehouse with her collision.
In any case, I took her advice and took off, following the highway leading north, avoiding the road directly, but keeping it in sight as I ran along the hills to the side of it. My unprisoner was hot on my heels, and with the removal of whatever outfit she had been wearing as a driver, turned out to be my friend and former coworker Beth. Lord knows what she was doing in Spain springing my ass from secret house arrest.
We sprinted down the hills for awhile, cutting through the tall grass like scythes, staying low in case any government vehicles or curious people saw us from the road. Daylight had switched on like an interrogation light, and I tried to calculate how far we had really run.
Far enough.
We descended to the highway and jogged down it, residual momentum, I suppose, and I stuck out my thumb, gaining nothing but an obstinate look of disgust from a white haired woman careening down the highway. I jogged backwards, staring at Beth and held my thumb out hopefully, not bothering to wonder if the Spaniards had the same hand signals for hitch hiking.
Rather quickly, two figures on scooters in red and blue pulled over to the side of the road, and with nothing more than an excited greeting beckoned us to hop on the back of their scooters. I took to the back of the guy's and Beth to the girl's, and frankly, in retrospect, I don't know who was wearing what colour anymore. I don't think they were even curious where we were coming from, but simply where we were headed. Wherever this road is taking us! Madrid!
We drove down the road, overlooking some large expanse of azure water, reclining like a femme fatale. What are we going to do now, Beth asked. No worries, this road will take us to Madrid, which is about 12 hours from here, and from there, we can go anywhere. In fact, there are plenty of small towns along the way, since I doubt we'll be on the road for another 12 hours anyway. We can disappear in the towns for a bit, or find rides anywhere we need to go. I think we've put enough distance between whoever's behind us. And fuck it all, after Madrid, maybe we should just keep barrelling down the road towards France. We can cross the Pyrenees and be having champagne in no time at all. And don't worry, believe it or not, this exact scenario happened to me recently, just a summer ago. These roads are like old songs to me, and we were going to sing along to the last refrain.
Our drivers were rather excited by the whole concept as well, and if I didn't know any better, I would say that they didn't have much of a destination themselves. They seemed rather content to drive us all the way to Madrid, and just to show their enthusiasm, instructed us to grab tight as they roared their scooters ever faster down the highway.
And was it the government? Mine? Theirs? Am I actually a Spanish citizen? What year is this anyway?
In any case, the guard at the parking lot gatehouse doesn't like my looks and I think he needs to stop smoking. I'm positive he's keeping tabs on me with that notebook of his, and so what? What have I done.
And just like that, I don't what sets it all off, but I'm under house arrest. Maybe they told me via letter, sealed and stamped. Or a phone call. What drove it home was the guard's twitchiness as I inched down the spiral staircase to the ground, before changing my mind and footing my way right back up.
After some time in the apartment, long enough for night to have settled in sleeplessly, as I lounged around looking at the parking lot and waited to see if dawn would bring any revocation of my arrest, a small car or motorcycle collided into one of the columns supporting my overhanging apartment. Nothing collapsed, but the driver sprung out of the metal and ran up the stairs into my apartment telling me that my window of escape had come. I suppose she must have simultaneously taken out the gatehouse with her collision.
In any case, I took her advice and took off, following the highway leading north, avoiding the road directly, but keeping it in sight as I ran along the hills to the side of it. My unprisoner was hot on my heels, and with the removal of whatever outfit she had been wearing as a driver, turned out to be my friend and former coworker Beth. Lord knows what she was doing in Spain springing my ass from secret house arrest.
We sprinted down the hills for awhile, cutting through the tall grass like scythes, staying low in case any government vehicles or curious people saw us from the road. Daylight had switched on like an interrogation light, and I tried to calculate how far we had really run.
Far enough.
We descended to the highway and jogged down it, residual momentum, I suppose, and I stuck out my thumb, gaining nothing but an obstinate look of disgust from a white haired woman careening down the highway. I jogged backwards, staring at Beth and held my thumb out hopefully, not bothering to wonder if the Spaniards had the same hand signals for hitch hiking.
Rather quickly, two figures on scooters in red and blue pulled over to the side of the road, and with nothing more than an excited greeting beckoned us to hop on the back of their scooters. I took to the back of the guy's and Beth to the girl's, and frankly, in retrospect, I don't know who was wearing what colour anymore. I don't think they were even curious where we were coming from, but simply where we were headed. Wherever this road is taking us! Madrid!
We drove down the road, overlooking some large expanse of azure water, reclining like a femme fatale. What are we going to do now, Beth asked. No worries, this road will take us to Madrid, which is about 12 hours from here, and from there, we can go anywhere. In fact, there are plenty of small towns along the way, since I doubt we'll be on the road for another 12 hours anyway. We can disappear in the towns for a bit, or find rides anywhere we need to go. I think we've put enough distance between whoever's behind us. And fuck it all, after Madrid, maybe we should just keep barrelling down the road towards France. We can cross the Pyrenees and be having champagne in no time at all. And don't worry, believe it or not, this exact scenario happened to me recently, just a summer ago. These roads are like old songs to me, and we were going to sing along to the last refrain.
Our drivers were rather excited by the whole concept as well, and if I didn't know any better, I would say that they didn't have much of a destination themselves. They seemed rather content to drive us all the way to Madrid, and just to show their enthusiasm, instructed us to grab tight as they roared their scooters ever faster down the highway.
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