Petit party

On the sixth day, not much has happened. Ever since I arrived in Las Palmas things have been even slower than it had been in the company of the Italians in Guía. The Italians were gracious hosts, very accommodating, despite my lack of overall delicadeza. Ennio and Ariana and Juan (the only non-Italian, Venezuelan) will always have a place in my heart even in the short span we have spent.

Now I am staying with Diego in Las Palmas. A sweet man, aged, like wine, almost to perfection, with a taste for the finer things in art and sensitivity. He spoke very little English, almost none, and we communicate through the use of technology, which works somehow, although I could have preferred a more nuanced approach, but it seems highly unlikely to learn so much of the language at a short span of time. I came to him at a very difficult spot in my life, fragile, and prone to fits of down, and yet I have never felt stifled by his presence. He has been overall warm and welcoming, kind-hearted, like so many others before and since, although he has no idea of the amount of luggage I keep inside of me, and it would have been detrimental in any other circumstance; I try to stay afloat, if only to live a day to see a bright light shining at the end of the tunnel. He lives at an odd, hilly spot of a typical Spanish ghetto, too high to traverse by foot, and a little bit of a nuisance to get to, but as soon as you get there, all the worries you have had throughout the day begin to dissipate into the aether once you have been greeted by the artistic works of their -- and mine, for that matter -- forebearers.

For the second day in a row now I descend from the hill towards a small café nearer to where I started this whole adventure. A quaint, little coffee shop not too far from the big Guagua bus station where everything and everyone basically comes and goes. I have not really urged myself to explore the place other than where I am located for any other reason. I should, but things are not looking too bright mood-wise. I just repeatedly pray and ask for a miracle. And for this very reason I find myself in a constant tug-of-war of wanting to be happy and wanting nothing else in the world save for that miracle. Life to me is a fickle mistress, and it is simply by way of understanding the intricacies of human interactions that it starts to unravel. These daily magicks are to me the only viable way to get to know a foreign land and its people, and it is through this I want to go out and experience new horizons, not the Roque Nublos of the world. They will always remain, but the strength of human bond is everlasting. This is why my tale here hurts the most. The part wherein your purpose becomes its own self-defeating antagonist. But the coffee shop has been my sole refuge in this time of minor distress. One of the locals recognised me from yesterday, wherein we chatted about the United Kingdom and the monarchy and all the rest, and I reassured him that I will return because my experience with this small space in this island had been to that of an only friend. My only friend, an edifice, a monument of the little time I have spent here, symbolic of the nothingness that I feel inside of me as time trickles by.