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  • In Spain, you eat. Well, and yes, you do. It drips, that aceite de oliva, that olive oil keens to the bread. The tomate comes in to chime its sweet seeded lullaby and soak down further, calling low in a basso hum for that garlic. Slice it thin as oil eyes itself. Glassine garlic on the tomate on the pan. Pan con tomate is a source of, and an exemplar of:----paz.

    In Spain, you talk about what you ate. Yesterday, today; tomorrow. What you ate tomorrow, yes, for in Spain the past is coming soon and the future is here, because as soon as you eat, you are in the process of processing the divine conversation of what you will eat next. Mysteriously, in Spain, eating, and talking about eating, I have never gained weight.

    In Spain, in companionable company, a Canadian might yearn for that simple thing: someone to talk to about the precise things your palate as it enjoys them is enjoining them to words. In Spain you talk about where you ate in Toronto and Torino and Tabasco and Veracruz and Vienna and down the cobble block. You talk in a resto about what you ate there long ago last night.

    To eat alone, in Spain, is to miss what the meal might be about--all the meals, every meal and how the hum of your eyes can meet the bluing dusk with another's eye hum and sit back how you sit back slightly sated and tinto-buzzed. In Spain to eat is to live, and to eat alone to live life, yet miss life like a lover long gone for a moment.


    (Photo by Susan, Spain 2012)
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