We never did too much talking anyway

There are days, of course. But usually it's just a numb sensation down there, not very much.

Then, of course, come days like today. And it's not numb, and it's not down there, and it's positively something.

How many dead Vietcongs do you see in this photograph?

Well, it really doesn't matter how hard you try, accidental discharges do happen with digital cameras. You are trying to figure out what some button, or combination of them in a given secuence, is for and, hop! a lot of innocent bystanders get captured forever in ones and zeros, and then they get uploaded to the internet and nobody can do a thing about it...

So let's make the best out of this tragedy. Tell me, how many people can you see in the picture above? Do you happen to know any of them?

The city was Barcelona, that in the background is a bullfighting ring or something.

While my guitar gently weeps

Yeah, it's a crappy video. And the music from the guitar was more clearly audible than the traffic in the real world. But, anyway.

This Praza Camoes in Lisbon. Due South. My favourite spot in the place.

Sands of time

I was deeply intrigued by the shapes in the sand as a kid. I guess there is an elaborated scientific explanation dealing with tides and waves and the like. I don't care too much. I'm still deeply intrigued by the shapes. The way the seem to form an ordered secuence, which they obviously do not.

Steeping in the sand as soon as the tide retreats is always like finding a virgin spot on the first morning of snow every winter. You want to put your foot on it. Leave your mark, your footprint, ruin all that geometrical splendour. The moment you do, you feel deeply conservationist. You would like that they pass a Law forbidding snow/sand footprinting.

The slope of your cheek

We spent most of the afternoon dozing. A shared towel in an almost desert beach. No unwelcomed babbling neighbours. No lorgnette vendors. No financial system crashing down. Gentle sun, a cloud giving us mercy now and then. The sea playing his music. The slow cadence of your breath, the small breadth between your head and mine. Almost quiet, full, perfect peace.

Most of that time, you know, you were sleeping. But you will never admit that.You were not tired of yesterday's long tiring hours of work. You were not sleepless after a long night.

I could reach the bag, search for the camera, turn it on, focus, take several shots with different focus and optics and even used the flash and you remained undisturbed, breathing up-and-down up-and-down. Your arm was around my chest. Mi nose against your nose. But you will never admit that you were sleeping like a baby.

I was just staring at you. I dozed too, now and then, and each time I opened my eyes, this is what I saw.

Spain's breadbasket

This is Northern Spain, somewhere past Leon. Well, Spanish Railways have improved a lot lately, but this particular one brought me powerful memories of days bygone. Crowded, with extra of noisy children, broken down air conditioning, a single WC serviceable...

I spent most of the time peering out through the window. Had to, TV broken down too, no way of reading. The sheer flatness of the land amused me and caught my imagination almost inmediately. This used to be Spain's breadbasket. A rich farmland with large crops of cereal coming out yearly of those long and flat campos. The bread Columbus ate on his trip was made of corn raised here. So they told me.