lie on my table four objects of this past December I have not had time to put in the box of memories: a ticket to a concert, a trip to North America, the back of a runner in a race Ethiopian Christmas and a ticket to access a football field empty.
now talk about my trip to America. Dickinson asked for help urgent email the day eight. She does not live here. Is an outsider. And it's not easy to get to Nantucket in December (much less you're flying low cost ). I spent a night delving for websites, to come up with an offer that was not perfect, but I used to get by.
On December 12th I flew from Barcelona to Boston (with a two-hour layover in Dublin) via Aer Lingus, which offered me the best price. Paid her, and did not have money, as I do not spare me. Were eleven hours of travel, waiting, loneliness, not to smoke.
me at Logan Airport waiting for Dickinson, with his collar up, a scarf, gloves and a wool cap. I recognized her, because for me it was impossible to guess in those eyes that showed through his layers of clothing. I was more visible (Latinos are optimistic and believe that with a cazadorita reach the North Pole). I followed, trembling, while leaving my footprints in the snow on the way to the station. We move in a company bus Peter Pan to the town of Hyannis, a hundred miles from Boston. There we took a ferry to Nantucket. We arrived after just over two hours of sailing and rough seas. By then, Dickinson and had lent me his scarf, and one of his gloves. The other hand is hiding in his pocket.
Nantucket is a small island next to the Martha's Vineyard, inhabited only in winter for fifteen thousand people (in summer the population is multiplied by five.) So we did not keep long lines to enter the Whale Museum or the Brant Point Lighthouse, major tourist attractions in the area if you do not play golf. And we walked in almost solitude long beaches and cliffs of this place that was the world center of the whaling industry for a hundred and fifty years. Then, since there was more to see.
Dickinson has a nice wooden house Pocoma near road, in Shawkemo. The fire was ever lit, and there was no other noise than the birds in winter, jumping from branch to branch in the garden behind the window. I sat there to correct his novel in the afternoons, while she made the best baked hake of the island for dinner. Before the morning, we went out to ride their bikes to high-seat black lagoon Sasachacha, and we approached the Siasconset Golf Course, or watched the walls of the mansions on Hulbert Avenue with eyes crying in the cold.
were wonderful days in that America had always said that there would step in my life, but I've learned to love through a small island called Nantucket. Then he finished typing on your computer. It ended its baked hake. No more bike rides.
I knew by heart the way back home: Nantucket-Hyannis-Boston-Dublin-Barcelona. So I fired Dickinson in the harbor, while she got into the ferry, with his collar up, a scarf, gloves and a wool cap. Now I could recognize, with the manuscript of her first novel under his arm.
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