Orilla de Azarbe, Murcia.
A lengthy aged cement road that serves as a man-made oasis from a sprawl of lush plots of farmland.
A line of houses and unknown public buildings with dusty faded paint stretching along the foundations of this road until they come barley recognizable.
For some people this sight might be something off-putting, rare, strange, and a stew of many other emotions. For four months I have given this view one identity:
Thursday.
Standing next to a wide metallic post with the markings of "Latbus" I find myself on the corner of this street awaiting the usual Thursday ride home after a day of working at the primary school Vicente Medina. Four hours of mimicking basic English grammar, listening for errors during speaking exercises, giving dozens of high-fives, and attempting to maintain the role of "teacher" towards a few hundred Spanish children, makes the silence of a lone bus stop feel like an embrace from a long lost friend. Not seeing a single person within tangible range of senses makes being here somewhat alien yet increasingly refreshing.
A single car passes. The person driving shares a similar interest towards me as I have towards them. Very little.
A gust of chilled winter air yields a silent shiver and somewhere the shaking of unknown trees can be heard in a soft waving fashion.
The number sixty-two bus is the only one that I have ridden on in Spain that arrives exactly on time. Normally they arrive eight minutes early or five minutes late. This in the four months since starting my contract as English assistant is the only public transport that arrives exactly at 1:13pm, the time printed on the chronicled list of arrivals along the metallic postage sign that faces me to the right. Vicente Medina is conveniently located directly in the middle of what some call nowhere hence hardly anyone is entering or exiting this particular bus, especially at this particular moment in time, giving each rare passenger a comforting awareness of punctuality.
Knowing that there is probably still a three minute window before the bus arrives I instinctively unzip my backpack and rip out a piece of semi-squished baguette then swallow it down in only a few bites. I bought this snack before heading to work this morning in anticipation of being hungry. My parents would probably have told me to chew slower but this is technically my Friday and being on a completely silent street where there inhabits more chirping rooftop pigeons than people I'm sure that no one will give much attention.
The taste of road baguette lingers in my mouth within Orilla de Azarbe as these words become immortalized inside the realm of this blog.
I dig a little deeper in my snack's paper bag and gather an additional soft chunk of soon to be eaten bread.
This post is coming two weeks later than intended. I wanted to write about the visiting of some great friends (John, Nick, Andrew, Thilak, and Gabriela) during the winter holidays. I was really fortunate enough to have visited John and Nick in Manchester, Andrew in Liverpool, Thilak in Cologne, and Gabriela in Paris. It had been years since we all had last seen each other and the reunions that we shared we something that i am truly grateful for and will remember for the rest of my life.
Preparing my first private English lessons, researching new warm-up activities for students at the two school I work with, and reconnecting with friends have all consumed great quantities of time since returning to Murcia.
Where there once was inspiration for a blog post there now sits a loaf of bread that was bought from a store located along a different corner in Murcia, and also possibly in life.
The proper words, descriptions, and gratitudes I wanted to express to the people visited during the break have regrettably taken the same form of the baguette that was once in my backpack. Similar to the ghost of what was once in the now empty paper bag as it sits balled up in the palm of my hand I can hardly remember how the words I wanted to use looked like. Maybe the post I wanted to babble was supposed to be this long or possibly it was going to be shorter.
I sincerely apologize and as the number sixty-two bus is starting to show its purple and orange rectangular forehead along the once empty Orilla de Azarbe concrete passageway it is now time to go forward with the afternoon and in life.
The bus is now here. I'm greeting the driver. The bus stop is now disappearing from sight as I sit in the back aisle of the typically empty Latbus.
Not a single person is here expect for me, the driver, and seats filled with memories from winter break. The hunger still persists however the road snack is completely gone and now there are only a few fallen crumbs that have escaped into my backpack.
Will I buy another loaf in the future? In this world its hard to say what decisions we will make and which bakeries to support.
There is one that I know will be frequented again. One that continues to keep me smiling and looking forward to when I get to see it again.
To some people it may have many names. I for a handful of years and hopefully for the rest of my life will give it only one identity.
Friendship.
Until next time.
