The Church

Do you remember the highway that connected El Puerto with Jerez, before it was a highway? The way to Jerez always seemed so long then, but now barely 30 minutes to the airport. The rolling hills, with cortijos along the way and neat rows of olive trees for miles on end. At least that is how remember it and that is how I dream it.
The night was long and fun, as they always are in Spain and the morning came slowly and yet suddenly it was upon us. The smells of the summer in Spain, the quality of the air, I still remember the sounds of the boats going out before dawn to fish. But the morning was best of all, with the tiredness of joy.
With this tiredness and this joy I sat atop of a hill, in between El Puerto and Jerez, and looking to the east I saw a hill, slightly higher than the others, slightly cleaner somehow than the others. And on it a church, a cathedral, a long and tall gothic structure, of brown-grey stone gleaming in the light of the  morning sun.

And the sky, the infinite sky so blue and so far, far up . . .


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