It’s dry dry dry. We stop, a four building stop, surrounded by nothing and donkeys. The bus is heavily pregnant with people and stories and destinations.
A blind man ascends. Rippled in desert wrinkles. He rattles his stick and his tin can down the aisle. Loud Arabic scattered with “one Euro”, “some Dirham”. Once, twice, three times up and down, gathering coins, waking the sleeping. Outside flies circle three large carcasses, hanging reds and pinks. Tapping, he leaves the bus and we jerk back to movement and the real world.
Big city life meant MacDonald’s lunch, taxi, duty free and safety instructions for emergency landings and life vests. Night landing in Girona, long bus ride to Barcelona, falafel dinners, Jose’s apartment, a flushing toilet, clean floors and developed city dreams.
