By Simon Barget
By the wrought-iron entrance commandeering your shoulder as you wheel in your suitcase. By its curlicue pattern around the wide panes of glass. By the gutter-stone vestibule holding in all that coolness. By the scent of the darkwood coming out from the banister. By the clicks and the echoes broadcast down from above. By the crisp marble smells, by the crisp marble smells. By the tight clappy echoes each microsound makes. By the fact of the lull once the door bolts shut behind you. By the absence of name tags or numbers, just two lifts, all pisos, and Flat A or Flat B. By the block of directories at the foot of the staircase. By the fact of the lock-clicking shut being only an afterthought. By the fact of the high sun you’ve just wandered in from. By the dust on the pavement blown in from the car lots next to the seafront. By an afternoon sun still rather lacklustre and faint. By the instructions to get off at the Mercado de Huelin. By the city closed in amidst tenements, by the done plastic bags, cigarette butts and pieces of white bread skirting the undersides of the skewiffly-parked Seats. By there being a hint of the Maghreb. By the fact most shops are closed for no rhyme or reason. By the fact of the Chinese-owned convenience stores being ramshackle and dark. By the fact of the same dank overcastness you get in that hallway. By the lift responding one good moment after the button is pressed. By the fact it will go at its own speed. By the fact that Calle Abogado Federico Orellana Toledano is wide and unruly. By the fact that it seems to lead only back to the bus station. By the gregarious church on the street corner. By the fact that the town here is certainly not pretty. By the fact that you are still stolidly sweating. By the fact of the sun refusing to go down. By the fact that youre moving, yes , youre just about travelling.