And To Spain for Everything

Eleven fifteen PM; I check my watch again. A sinking feeling fills my stomach, as I realize that I am one hour behind the larger spherical clock of this Granada bus station. I peer through the vertical waiting room windows into the fluorescent lit bay of vacant bus stalls and marred asphalt, to where my transport to Valencia should be. Above and beyond, darkness looms and I imagine somewhere below this mountainous outpost, my vanished bus meanders down and toward the Mediterranean. I scan the empty, utilitarian station searching for answers to this new quandary. The ticket booth’s corrugated doors are shut and locked; an old man apathetically sleeps in a plastic chair; a patrol officer dutifully watches for potential overnight interlopers. Standing at the far end of the bay, I notice a petite figure dressed in combat boots and fatigues. Her handsome dark eyes express efficiently, what it takes a few minutes of broken language to confirm. She is Victoria, and she and I have involuntarily become a family of wayward travelers.

Only a few days prior, and another world away, I enjoyed the full splendor of Sevilla’s Easter festival, Semana Santa. Weaving my way through crowded, pilgrim-lined processions of flowery flotillas, or pasos, each with their own troop of cofradias - a brotherhood of celebrators dressed in pious robes, conical hoods and brandishing jewel-encrusted scepters. Superfluous images of the Virgin Mary preceded horned bands of somber melodies through the zigzagging cobble streets. By night, this Moorish wonderland erupted into a sea of frenzied merrymaking. Packed discothèques spilled out onto moon-lit street celebrations, underneath palms and colossal, gothic cathedrals. I grin as I realize that I was now very likely competing for select space on a bus with those very same Sevilla merrymakers.

In the sterile terminal, time passes faster than it should, as we await the next bus up the coast. I fumble through poorly conjugated verbs and ill-formed inquiries, and yet despite this there is an intrinsic understanding that she is here to help, and I to trust. The 2:20 AM bus to Valencia arrives. Its tinted windows reflect the pale artificial lights outside and also our ability to accurately gauge our chances of passage aboard. It is still unclear to me how, but through some succinct exchange with the Spaniard operator, Victoria manages to gain us passage onto this crowded and tired liner to the sea.

Now, as daylight savings transpires each year, I recount so much of that time and those exuberant Easter festivals in ancient, sunny cities with their soft, warm nights. I also recall that Andalusian bus station and the hours spent content in the unknown. Since then, and on numerous occasions since, it is become clear and evident that good travel is synonymous with good living. And that occurs when faith in the unknown is married with an openness to the world at large. When that happens, time stands still as you move forward.