San Sebastian, Spain
Tag: Spain
When I Met Hemingway
tell me about the time you met Ernest Hemingway, sure, i was a fencer, prodigy, too strong? he had heard about my riposte skills, fighter, he was, you could tell, mostly with staccato sentences, had a bottle, always tucked into his sports jacket, whisky of whatever sort, we were in alicante, long copper top bar, anyway, he was curious, listened well, slurred his words, still wanted to learn, i was young, impressed with his name, hemingway, like a british rainstorm, a small torment, wet human, sad inquisitive eyes, could you sense how he would end? this was a few years before ketchum, before, well, you know, and no, i couldn’t surmise, it was the 50’s, eisenhower, golf, before sylvia plath, anyway, i thought he’d live forever, i guess he kinda did.
Perfect Days In Spain
summer of 1995 & college is over, a career does not yet exist, i’m living in moraira, spain, on the coast, day begins in love, warm croissants, plums, squeezed orange juice, mediterranean lingering in the distance, watery dream, one mile winding walk to the beach, a 20 minute swim, fish market, vegetables, baguette, bottle of wine, international herald tribune, stroll back to the house, lunch might be paella or tortilla espańola, time is no matter, read the whole paper, every word, then, perhaps some faulkner, light in august or absalom, absalom!, open journal, write about a fictitious future, ideas, stories, nothing at all, afternoon becomes evening, stars, paco de lucia playing guitar on cassette, intertwined night, soft sheets, sound of crashing waves, morning sunlight rays, repeat, day after day.
Of Love and Madrid
her curfew midnight, i sprinted the summer streets of madrid. by metro and taxi, she, an hour away, then an hour back across the capital city. 16 years old, when i could run and sweat, 94 degrees dripping down my cheeks. it didn’t matter, because i always stood by the open window of the metro train, hot air drying everything except the pounding blood in my chest, and i hardly knew it, but this was love. arriving, eyes aglow, to stroll on an ancient moorish pathway, share a morsel of ice cream. 12am, taxi, underground train, back to carabanchel, the far reaches of madrileńo civilization. never a second thought that i would do it all over the next night.
Off To Madrid: 1989
Museo del Prado
I once had
to choose between
dinner, potatoes, maybe
a steak, or
art. The food
salty with skin
drips of sauce
or Goya’s bulging
eyes. I only
had enough money
for one or
the other, before
flying back to
Dulles. You may
have guessed it
but El Greco
had his way
with shadows, that
light in darkness
and me hungry.
Daniel W. Polk 