24 march 2005

We spent 23 hours in Cordoba and we were awake for 19 of them, walking around the winding streets between the white and yellow buildings and eating tapas in the renowned Cordoba courtyards. Now it is morning – well, noon – and we are recovering from a night of cervecas and dancing and a man named Rafael by sipping fresh-squeezed orange juice at a patio table on the Calle de la Porteria de San Pedro Alcantara. We are sitting under orange trees groomed into lollipop shapes, and being serenaded by a roving guitarist in a black cowboy hat.

There are harder things, than our life here in Spain.