Everyday on my way to work I can see the giant cross of Franco's grave, the religious symbol turned on its head, an enduring image of fascism in modern Spain. I see the tan, khaki, auburn shrubs that make up most of the earth in this desert environ, more akin to a Mexican valley than a German hinterland. I see the red tiles that mark the roofs of homes, the churches and steeples, the crumbling ruins of some war, windmills, forts, stables, all next to apt complexes and condos, bus stops and highways.
Every morning I stop at the cafe on the way to my bus and get a cafe con leche, maybe a croissant, and watch night become day, watch the evening's slumber awaken as my bus meanders up two-lane roads to Cercedilla, my charming postcard pueblo. I suck in my breath as this massive charter bus tucks into a tunnel that's just large enough to accommodate just one vehicle this big at time, so other cars need to reverse at its approach. The past meets the present in ways it never intended to and I meet my future in this land that seems caught in an arrested development. Let the journey begin.
