Algerciras has been a surprise- a fruit, fish and meat market in the
midmorning where I brought bread and a kilo of fresas. While walking
through el centro urbano I put one fresh body in my mouth at a time, my
hand and wrist stained messy purple, until my stomache moaned in an
ache of painful expansion. I prefer my meals like this- well-deserved
and waited for so each strawberry is a small world of pink juice in
your fingers. The view of the albergue is astounding, before me in
three main stages of mother earth- a large mountainous expanse of
tilting greens, the lighter pastures spread like cream across the
landscape, the formidable mount of Gibraltar, its shape natural yet
square and military with beige housing skirting its bottom in a rocky
skirt hem appearance.

To the left the rocky coast of Cueta staggers
through the atmosphere to a point. A man's garland face protrudes in
rock from the nearest hilltop, his profile in a stone pout, drawn far
down his chin with a sculpted, even attractively shaped nose. There are
steep expansive vallies here, with horses or cows on their sides. In
the morning, when one arises here, you stand above white clouds and the
vallies, distant Gibraltar and sea, stay tucked beneath them until
morning wind pulls off their blanket and leaves them blinking and
gorgeous in the innocence of the sun's first touch. Several hilltops
wear necklaces wear necklaces of modern, three point windmills. No
longer do they have sails that let the wind fill their corners and toss
them up and over each other like circles of leaves. Today's windmills
are white with plastic fins that spin constantly, churning electricity
down their white stems.