Tiles slope down and
down just beyond arm’s reach, before me.
I’m parked atop a pillow on a stone bench up along a second story porch. Tiles that seem very old to me, but what do I
know? Layered like the belly of some
grand reptile turned on it’s back. Each
shell a different shade of orange and brown and white covered in decades of
bird shit and lichen. Bright green palms
blowing in the wind, crackle stiffly.
They sweep against the tiles, forming an odd tropical contrast of color,
like the Indian flag, or the Eire tricolor, as well. But than the sky behind is a tropical azure.
And no one has an orange and green and blue flag, do they?
My younger one and I were up at 4:30AM. We talked for a bit, quietly. Eventually, I talked her into a walk. “This is best time to explore a city. All the birds will be out.” “Let’s wait for those guys.” “They aren’t getting up for a while. Remember the time we walked around Vienna in
the early morning?” “Oh yeah.” Just
you and me.
Dawn broke and we walked over to the old Merced church
around the corner. It was closed of
course, but we took some photos outside.
A man walking toward us, carrying a thermos was yelling “café caliente.” I was tempted. I considered his load and his strong forearms
and he ambled off in front of us, yelling out as he passed this security guard,
or that person sweeping the sidewalk. Oddly,
a young woman turned over a civic trash bin and swept the pile into the
sidewalk.
Off in the distance was a tremendous din. We had heard the parrots in the park, the day
before. But now, at 5:30AM there was
something considerably more cacophonous throbbing away. We made our way to the central square. The screaming overwhelmed the automobiles and
the ring of a cell phone and the growl of a bus. Entering the square this shrieking was
overwhelming. I had thought it was
solely a flock of parrots, but instead, it seemed like some ornithological
Althing. I presume this is somewhat
seasonal, but could not say why so many birds choose these trees to congregate
around. I sat on a bench, and tried to
close my eyes to listen, but my younger one insisted we move on, afraid of
being shat on, she was. Chances were
rather high for this, I agreed, and we continued on our way.
I had a rough idea to make our way to Granada’s enormous
lake front. To my recollection it wasn’t
more than a kilometer away. The side
street were now making our way down, was a bit sketchy, despite the pastel
turquoise and yellow façades covering the buildings.
The latest of the late night traffic, stood on corners behind kids on
their way to school. We stopped at a
church and asked another pedestrian who confirmed the lakefront wasn’t
far. I promised my daughter we’d take a
cab back if she continued on with me down the road.
The lake is like a sea, extending on beyond what my eyes
could take in. We came to a fence. Wispy reeds covered the shore, blown by the
tremendous, unobstructed wind. “Don’t
worry. These mosquitos can’t do anything
because the wind is too strong.” A pier
stuck out into the lake, demanding to be walked upon. My daughter was having none of it. I saw a man out on the pier and decided to
check the gate. It was locked. As he got closer I saw he was carrying a
rifle. Funny how the eyes pick up the
important things. “Sir. Is it closed?” “Yes.
It is closed.”
We heard a bang. I
didn’t see anything. My daughter pointed
out that someone had fallen from a motorcycle.
A young woman was moaning. Her
feet were in the air. A crowd had
gathered. A pickup truck was parked
near by. I couldn’t tell if she had been
struck. It looked more like the bike had just fallen on top of her. A man lifted the bike up. She was in pain. I debated, but didn’t think there was much I
could do to help, with so many people around her. We walked back till we saw a cab and
discussed how dangerous motorcycles were as we rode back to the town square
with a young man and his son, in the front seat.
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