Distant Diary — Spain

DAY 8

Freedom.

Mentally untethered to the possibility that my host may eat my beating heart, I wake early and start walking south along the shore. I find myself in Denia, though amazingly do not make it to the mountain I spotted a few days earlier.

While I walk, I listen to David Whyte's What To Remember When Waking.

In it, he reads his poem Todar Phadraic. It is not my favorite of his works, but its genesis interests me as it's the first I hear of the Tuatha Dé Danann, a mythological race of people who lived in Ireland. Uninterested in battle, they "turned sideways into the light and disappear into the originality of it all." Whyte describes this event as them "no longer wanting to have that conversation." This interests me because I know that if I do not expire on the Mediterranean, I do not wish to return to the place and life that I left behind exactly one week ago.

It is the tedium of modern life that chisels away at me, and it is that which I hope to dance around while tricking it into thinking I'm dancing with.

I recall what Scott Rosenberg taught me in my 20s: give it a name, so I Christen it the time-rich life. Simultaneously, Jim James puts his lips to my ear: "Tryin' gets nothing done."

As always, I walk.

Sardines are cheap at the Super Mercado. A different breakfast for Nina.

I close the day sleeping with the bedroom door open.

52KM.

I wake a few hours later with a full bladder. Raised by women (mother, aunt, sisters, grandmother), I've always peed seated. Tonight's no exception. Sitting there, I feel something soft against my calfs. Blanche sidling by. I bend to stroke her and rise bloodied.

DAY 7

Joe picks up Arianne. They're off to the airport.

I decide to branch out from the Playa and head to and beyond the city proper. There are orange groves between us and a ton of loud guard dogs, most of which are behind fences. I find a "mountain" with a portion of castle atop it. Looking down from the other side you can get a good look at the whole of Oliva.

I don't yet know the cities beyond, but vow to get out to them.

DAY 5

Last night as I tried to sleep — the house is a two bedroom — I could hear Arianne. She was mumbling to herself while pacing. At least that's what it sounded like. I heard her rifle through the kitchen drawer and imagined her choosing a butter knife with which to finish me. I fall back asleep.

I'm an early riser but she even took that away from me by being an earlier riser. I wait until I hear her leave and then get up and head out myself.

I walk the beach and surrounding neighbourhoods and wonder how lunch with the landlord-cop is going to go.

I stop at La Botigueta and get some terrific veg, including the best carrots I've ever had. But when I return home, I find that Arianne has already done all the shopping and seems slightly perturbed about my purchase.

She's making rice and fish. As she stirs, she stares out the window. "He's the one that's doing it," she says. I look over her shoulder. In the distance, maybe 400 feet, I see another house. No people. Does she maybe mean the dog?

I change the subject, ask how often she gets to the beach. Does she like the area? She confesses she rarely leaves the house. "Not one more minute in this town," she says.

Mateo arrives and we quickly hit it off. When I tell him I sell records, he immediately starts talking music. I hate talking music but humour him. I also help him with some phone stuff — he's having issues and maybe I know how to fix them. He's no longer concerned about who is going to be staying in his house.

We exchange numbers and when he leaves, I ask Arianne if she wants to buy her plane tickets now. She says we will have to use my phone. I say that's fine, as long as she doesn't use my credit card. Not even a smile.

She explains what she wants: Spain to the Maldives, stopping in Abu Dhabi for four days. Only wants to fly in one direction, no flight longer than six hours. No layovers.

Takes me four hours to figure it out. The fastest I can get rid of her is two days from now. An eternity when your host is armed with a butterknife.

I ask again if maybe she wants to show me around. She declines, muttering a word in a language I don't recognize under her breath.

Along a path I sense someone ahead of me in the bushes. It's Mateo. I say Hi and he walks along beside me so I stop. He needs to talk to me. He points back at the house, saying, "She... what is the word..." He points his finger at his head and swirls it through the air, the universal symbol for scrambled brains.

"Paranoid," I say, and Mateo stabs the air between us.

"That's the word! Paranoid!"

"Yes," I say.

"You'll take care of my house?"

"I'll certainly try," I say.

He nods, offers his hand. We shake and go our separate ways.

Of course, I walk.

Love the colors of the buildings here.

Toronto would have a collective aneurysm if someone painted a building that color.

DAY 4

I spend the morning in Valencia, then buy a ticket to Oliva, about 80km south. While waiting for the bus, I meet an American couple who are heading to Cullera. They are incredulous when they find out I've been hired from Canada to cat sit.

The bus ride is cheap at 8,10 euro, but my mother would say it was the milk run. I almost miss my stop but get the driver to pull over again.

Call Joe the British cabbie, who is expecting me. "Five minutes," he says, and is there in three. "To Arianne's house?" Si, I nod. "Are you good friends?" he asks.

"I've never met her."

A look of concern on his face. Inside, I panic. Something amuck. I should have asked more questions before boarding that plane.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"I don't understand."

"She's hired me to look after her cat while she travels."

"Didn't you say you were from Canada?!"

"Yes."

"And you're here for 3 months?"

"Yes."

Another puzzling look. Something is definitely amuck. We arrive at the house. I pay him and he asks if he should wait. I tell him no and he drives off.

Locked gate. I consider climbing it, but wait. Ten minutes and out she comes, saying she didn't hear me calling. Is she what I expected? What did I expect? "It's hot, let's go inside." An accent, but not a Spanish one.

She introduces Blanche, the cat. My charge. Instantly, I know she's going to be a nightmare.

Arianne offers lunch and I accept. Fish and rice. The two bedroom house is charming. "How long have you lived here?"

"A few months."

"And you're off on vacation so soon?"

"I'm already on vacation. This isn't my house."

"I'm sorry?"

Arianne rented the house for a year. Paid in advance. After seven months, she wants to leave. "They've found me."

"Who?"

She doesn't answer. The expression on her face is either, "You know who," or "I'm not sure I can trust you with that information." I remember the look on the cabbie's face.

She paces the kitchen holding a butter knife. "Tomorrow, Mateo will join us for lunch."

"Who's Mateo?"

"This is his house. He wants to meet you. He says he never agreed to another 'tenant'. He's not happy I've hired you. He's police. Retired." Great.

"Tomorrow? For lunch?" She nods. "But what time's your flight?" I ask.

"I haven't bought my ticket yet. I was hoping you'd help me with that. No point using my phone. Lets talk about it tomorrow. You should take a walk. Get to know the area."

"Do you want to join me? Show me the area?"

"I've seen enough of this town to last a lifetime," she says.

I walk the beach.

Day 3

Woke early. Packed, grab a frittata on the way to the train.

Rode 328KM south to Valencia.

Train ride mostly uneventful. Sat next to an American stand-up comic with a sad sack story about losing all his money on his European tour. Didn't laugh once.

Another AirBnB, this one more "factory."

Walked just under 10K. Museums. Basilicas. Much porcelain. Grotesques and gargoyles abound. Delicious Charcuterie and the worst Martini I've ever had. Unimaginably bad.

I am older than the Font Del Túria, but it has me beat in beauty, poise, and bird shit.

I think Valencia is the most beautiful city I've ever seen.

DAY 2

Hit a few bookstores and am impressed with the Spanish editions. Wonderful paper, slick covers, great design. Once again wonder why British editions are so dreadful compared to other countries'.

Taifa Llibres is particularly wonderful, as is Libreria LA Central. Toronto just doesn't have stores like these. Killed by greedy landlords, Heather Reisman, etc. I consider picking up something I know cover-to-cover thinking it'll help learn the language. Jesus' Son? Silly idea. Brain is absolutely useless for learning new things right now.

Walk the streets towards Park Güell, see some great graffiti.

Spend most of the day in the Park and Gaudi's house. Am rather fond of his bedroom.

Head to Elephanta. Meet Anabel Caravaca and am charmed. Write a bad poem, which she takes. Stay way too long, but not long enough, unfortunately. Have to catch a train to Valencia in the morning. Will catch up with her online.

Head home to get some sleep. 11.3KM covered. Lightweight.

DAY 1

Direct from YYZ to BCN. Easy flight. (Aren't they all?) Arrive 10:36am.

SIM card. Sandwich. Metro to the AirBnB in the Gracia neighborhood to drop off my bag and get my key.

Marble stairs, 3 flights. The door is huge + heavy. Mariano shakes my hand, shows me the room, explains the fussy shower.

Head back out. Fantastic bookstores with gorgeously designed and printed books. Pick up a copy of Good Morning, Midnight. Walk. Beautiful architecture everywhere.

The busiest streets I've ever seen. Street corners that somehow aren't. Genius. Scooters everywhere.

Walk to Restaurant Casa Delfin for lunch. So good.

Lots of walking.

715PM — Grab a cocktail at Solange. Read from the Rhys novel. Inspired by a particular passage, I jot in my notebook:

A woman. A nice woman A nice, beautiful woman. A very nice, beautiful woman. It's going to be different this time...

People-watch. Think about working on the novel. Grab the bill.

More walking. Dinner on the rooftop of the Hotel Casa Fuster.

Work a bit on LVGR. Tighten:

I'd tell you I paid good money for the boy, but that's not entirely true because the child wasn't expensive and the money wasn't earned by honest work. I killed a man for it and the cost didn't even eat up what remained after seven months of party and drink.

My wife had always wanted a child and I had always wanted a son so the purchase quelled both our longings. But things change when you swap money for blood. Your life gets harder. Your luck turns. Things fall apart.

For my wife, punishment came as a cancer. For my daughter, it came as a curse, though she wouldn't call it that. "Clarity of identity," she'd say. Something I can never claim for myself. As for me, punishment's still coming, a vision on the horizon I fear is not a mirage.

Unlike my kid, I've never felt I had an identity. I don't know who "I" am or what "me" means. So unaware of what I did not know, I didn't even know I didn't know it. She made me aware of what I lacked, Siobhan. It's an Irish name. Chose it herself. We'd named her Steven, April and I.

1130PM — Head down to the street.

Youth chill in the evening air:

Midnight — arrive back at Mariano's. Total distance walked, 17.8KM.