Spain, Day 19

In "Pre-cursor to Independence" Move #1, I undertook a solo trip to the supermarket Saturday night. The first and foremost purchase of the evening now sits on my nightstand (unfortunately, within arms reach), and it eased the pains of the 7 hour train ride into the interior of Spain during which the on-board entertainment consisted of the Robin Williams Opus, RV. Surprisingly enough, the purchase was non-alcoholic, though the fun aisle tempted me, especially after ultimate-nanny-Saturday. In fact, my prime Supermarket snag was healthy (I hope). I am now the proud owner of my very own box of Muesli (I picked out the mix with fruits and nuts). I thumbed my nose at those novice tourists at the mercy of hotel breakfasts, and who may suffer entire city-stays denied their beloved Muesli (like in Rome, hotel #1). Now, not only had I seized my freedom, but I could now enjoy this treat independently, outside the hours of 7-10 a.m. I celebrated this Sunday morning by waking up early and enjoying a pleasant breakfast in a very still house, where the loudest activity was not the arguments of children or the roar of Toon Disney, but rather the crunch of oat clusters and walnuts and tantalizing flakes of coconut. Then I finished packing, patted the children, kissed them goodbye, and drove off to the train station, finally understanding why Mary Poppins never cried like I did at the end of her movie.

The glimpses of the Spanish countryside between naps, snatches of RV, and fistfuls of Muesli instilled a surprising tranquility in me. The flush of reds, browns, and yellows, decorated with orchards of powdery green olive tress, appearing as rustic as the pictures of the typical wood plank presses, and the fields of gangly sunflowers that blossomed in the simmering heat of the Andalusian sun recalled the wild beauty of the central plains of the U.S., but with a more yellowed palette and plenty more hills and rocky outcroppings.

Though generally not given to wildlife appreciation, I credit the Muesli with having started my day with crunchy, fruity, joy, which sustained itself well into the evening, which I capped off the night with a delectable ice cream cone of turron and nata con pinones (pine nuts) in a dessert spectacular that rivaled the Gelato of Bologna (by far my favorite). And while I had hoped that the walking I would have to commit myself to while exploring Spain independently might balance the overconsumption I submitted my gut to over the last two weeks, the fact that this heladeria sits at the foot of the stairs of my hotel threatens to dull any prospects of recouping lost ground. Alas...