THE POST THAT IS NOT AS EXCITING AS THE LAST

In one of my classes we were asked to write a one page reflection on our mini-field-trip to the train station. I've posted about benevolent millionaires and near death experiences, but that isn't the Spain I know. Events are making the timeline, but moments are making the time:

Valencia’s Practical Aesthetic

Beyond City Hall and The Post Office, at the end of La Calle Avinguda del Marques de Satelo, after the bouncing neon vested operator of the jackhammer, to the right of the sand-brown, brick arena of La Plaza de Toros de Valencia, through the fence of deep-green iron spires which are planted in the top of a shattered-white-tile-wall, over the row of slanted white parking lines, coal black cobblestones, and lanes of modern asphalt, between the circle-topped, symmetrically rippled,  black cylinders that line the drop-off lane, beyond the two light-towers of recurring tile and iron, and resting upon the dark square-foot tiles is La Estacion del Nord.

With my legs stretched and crossed one over the other, sitting on the same dark tiles as the station, leaning against one of the rippled posts, no longer aware of the car-horns, jackhammer, or rolling wheels, I began to dig through layers. I didn’t want the text to show me seeing, but to show what I’ve seen. And first there were the layers: Socks under boots that are over jeans which disappear into sweaters that are beneath coats but surrounding shirts that are capped by scarves. Or: The grandfather who is staring at the earth and shuffling an inch at a time, positioned further up my horizon than the two smoking divas whose heels click as they stomp towards the street, but not as far as the teen-girl sitting thin legged and awkward in her boyfriend’s lap, at first reluctant to kiss him, but relenting as he whispers what for them is a “something” but for us a “nothing”. The couple embraces and leans against the large oak door at the center of La Estacion. Flashes of strollers, backpacks, suitcases, briefcases, bags, hats, canes, smoke, jackets, and flesh walk between us, cutting the story like the pages of a flip-book.