I had a dream during the first weeks of Sevilla when my brain could not
turn off at night after a late dinner of tortilla or a bocadillo de
atun. I was walking by myself, by an ocean, but it was far below and
wide like it would have been if painted in the background of a modern
painting. I walked into a flat, white plaza, not like those around me.
No antique crumbed church, no fountain, but cleared land with a white
wall in shock with blue expanse. Today I found it in Lagos, Portugal.
It does not have a name, nor any visitors as I enter it, as I entered
it in the dream. Below me play Portuguese children, "anda, anda," they
call, digging up sand on their knees. One little girl, dressed in navy
blue pants and shirt, boyish and dirty, looks up. She is a mix, her
skin coffee brown with heartbreaking large eyes- her beauty strangely
makes me want to cry and also run down and know her- ask her name to
hear a bewildered Portuguese answer. This way I will have a name next
time someone asks me why I love life.