Yesterday I had a strange experience. I can not really describe it, so maybe I should stop writing and close the lid. But on a Sunday afternoon like this, time is all I have and all I can afford to lose.
I have lived a lonely weekend. Cristina came down south to see a good friend who is struggling, and I have stayed at home, listening to the water flowing through the radiators in this increasingly cold autumn, but here, near the sea, has been still unable to break the memory of summer.
On Saturday morning he left early and Cristina, in the afternoon, when the television on a dissonant voice warm sleep I took a nap, threw back the covers, I got up off the couch and took the keys of the bike. I had no plan, had a camera on his back but was unsure whether to take two or three hours of daylight that remained of the day to address fly south or north instead, toward the white mountains of the Pyrenees. The C-32 left me in the A-2, and this led to the AP-7, and after several miles of asphalt and white lines I ended up in the city of Girona, at the foot of a beautiful and slender church the old town, just as the sun was hidden behind the horizon and the first street lamps were beginning to ignite.
Hungry, I ate a hamburger and a serving of mushrooms and wild at the foot of that monument, and then walked around aimlessly, with helmet in hand, through the old streets and autumn, noting how little by little ambience of a Saturday night was illuminating the murky initial appearance of the city, making it a party, however, was beyond me. I was only there as an observer, it was just a pair of eyes behind the camera, avoiding the sidewalk to the boisterous youth groups, avoiding the look of beautiful teenagers who got together and laughing in bars, on terraces.
I walked for a little over an hour between dark pubs, ice cream and white tinsel places where families and dined that night, ran freely to their children. For a while I sat on the steps of the cathedral, also roamed the bustling boulevard and crossed several bridges in both directions, watching the calm waters of the river Ter reflected on the shining lights of the city. Had warned of my unexpected arrival of a friend vive por la zona pero, al pasar el tiempo y no recibir ningún mensaje de respuesta, la di por perdida. No en vano, sin embargo, hay momentos en los que uno prefiere estar solo, y a mí la tarde mohína me había regalado ese deseo. Cansado al fin, abroché como mejor supe mi cazadora de cuero, cubrí bien el cuello bajo el casco negro, y arranqué de nuevo mi moto en dirección a casa, a través del aire nocturno, denso y frío.
La autopista era a la vuelta un mar oscuro hendido sólo por el foco blanco de mi faro delantero, y en el espejo retrovisor apenas un atisbo rojizo de mi luz trasera seguido de cerca por una unfathomable blackness. Thus, as a small dot of light that snaked through a sea of \u200b\u200bdark fields, I figured it was seen from the air for the last flights out of the airport of Girona. So, I suppose, as a silent point of light, are all seen from the top.
I've always given the climate and in particular to the four seasons tremendous capacity to vary my mood. It seems that not all people influence alike but it also seems that I am not the only nor the first to ascribe such importance. An old friend, a psychology student, I explained a Once in the Middle Ages as a Greco-Roman heritage, was unusual among the doctors talk about the four "humours", one per station, which is repeated cyclically and they brought with them different behavior and mood in men. And the mood of autumn, "he said explaining that sad November afternoon in which we were walking aimlessly, was melancholy.
When I got home and parked the bike, threw his jacket over a chair and lay on the couch, again among the blankets. In La 1 threw a English film, "The Hangman" a beautiful love drama set in Girona. I was amused by the coincidence but did not give more importance to it, having fallen back asleep, I woke up the flow of water in the radiators, they do when they lose their heat and cool slowly, like the death rattle of the heater. These contractions and expansions of metal, the murmur of water withdrawal, as home and family, I stood at once in space, and even before opening his eyes I knew I was at home on my couch with the television still on and the very low volume. I was not sure, "I realized, was far from my location in time and, all things considered, nothing of what had happened in my life so far: had actually been in Girona was simply recalling a movie?, did what he had dreamed it all? The city, the film, the bike, the look of a dark girl who passes by night or return home, everything was mixed in a confused awakening swear having lived a few hours earlier on the same sofa, facing the same TV on. In a setback of memory, suddenly thought to have been born and always lived in Girona, like the protagonists of the film, and there have loved a girl of small breasts and large dark eyes, as the waters of the river Ter, which night reflects the city lights. And all this in turn did not fit with other memories that seemed fictional, own a dream or a movie, as the lone white lights on the bike on the highway, seen from a thousand feet high, or memories that seem to have been there, as you know actually born in a city so far from the sea coast there, as the song says Sabina, can not conceive.
And then I hear the jingle of keys, the spinning of a key in the lock, and suddenly remember that Christina went this weekend, I live by the sea but I am Madrid, and I've been alone at home, on this couch, lost in time and in the gloom prevailing in the autumn evenings.
