As I reached Plaça d'Espanya by way of Calle Olms, I began to realize how tired I was. It wasn't just because it was seven in the morning and that I was at the end of my long walk to the bus station from a seemingly endless night in Gomila, it was a sort of weariness that a year of walking up the same hill brings. Calle Olms was my route home from school. Its not a very sharp incline, and some might not even notice it all, but for those who know the street as well as I do, it seems like an eternal upward struggle. But despite the weight of my eyelids and the dragging of my feet, I was wide awake; I was coming to the end of my road in Mallorca.
When I finally reached Plaça d'Espanya, I felt like a mountain climber reaching the summit. Except I wasn't out of breath, and there was no spectacular view over the endless landscape. Instead, there was weather worn old man bumming cigarettes and a drunk peeing in a bush. Not the kind of summit one wants to arrive at, but nonetheless, I felt triumphant. The morning sun was steadily rising over the old train station, yet it was still too low in the sky to light up the whole Plaça. I took a seat on one of the benches and pulled out a cigarette.
As I sat there staring at the new day, I began realizing the importance of the Plaça. Whether it was coming home from school or waiting for a friend or having a drink or going out for the night; everything started or ended in Plaça d'Espanya. Essentially, its the bus terminal of Mallorca and almost every bus line has a stop there. I catch the 221 to Palmanyola at least once a day and I always get off at the last stop, Plaça d'Espanya.
Smoking my cigarette, I began thinking about everything that had happened in the last week, month, and year. Lately, I've been pulling a lot of late nights out with friends (believe me, this is not the first time I've come home in the the bus at seven-thirty in the morning.) Trips to Aranal, San Juan, Maritimo, Gomila... the list goes on and on. But they're not the first things that come to mind when I think about my year, my real list goes more like: The barbecue, Esporles, making real friends, Dharma, beaten up, English classes, Mallorquinas, Sa Cova, sailing, swimming, missing the bus, waiting, Mahou, Sa Pobla, Kebabs, sleeping in Catalan class, Duna, Padre de Familia, the Spanish guitar, San Sebastian, goats, Vineyards, Thanksgiving, riding around on a motorcycle, laughing, Bruce Springsteen, Vodafone, taking a leak on everything, the endless sea all around me, the mountains I have climbed, and above all else: Plaça d'Espanya .
I flicked my cigarette and stared at the avenue. There were some people waiting for the bus, others stopped in their cars at the light. Some were riding bicycles, others were walking. Perhaps on their way to work, or maybe to the beach. The streets were coming to life in front of me. And as I sat their, I felt old. A long year too short. I know the timing of the traffic light. I know the bus schedules and all their destinations, even if I've never been there. I know how much a cup of coffee costs in all the bars in the Plaça. I know you can smoke in the tobacco store there, even though it's prohibited. I know that when to cross the street, without even looking at the light.
As the sun rose higher, more people began passing by. Heads down. IPods on. Chatting on their cell phones. All with a purpose. All with destinations ahead of them. I had reached mine. All beginings have an end, at least in Arestotolic philisophy. A year abroad is a cruel thing. It throws you blind into a new world far from your own and forces you to use all of your survival and adaptation skills just to get by. So me can't handle it, and many go home along the way, beaten by the forces that be. Yet there is a worse fate for those who last til the end. The seperation. I have come to love Mallorca as my home, and my host-family as a mom, dad, and brother. Now I have to return to my old world and leave everything that I built behind.
As I crossed the street to the bus station, I whispered my goodbyes to the statue of Jaume on his steed and the pigeons that call him home. Here I was, at the end of the line, the final de trajecta. Plaça d'Espanya.
As the sun rose higher, more people began passing by. Heads down. IPods on. Chatting on their cell phones. All with a purpose. All with destinations ahead of them. I had reached mine. All beginings have an end, at least in Arestotolic philisophy. A year abroad is a cruel thing. It throws you blind into a new world far from your own and forces you to use all of your survival and adaptation skills just to get by. So me can't handle it, and many go home along the way, beaten by the forces that be. Yet there is a worse fate for those who last til the end. The seperation. I have come to love Mallorca as my home, and my host-family as a mom, dad, and brother. Now I have to return to my old world and leave everything that I built behind.
As I crossed the street to the bus station, I whispered my goodbyes to the statue of Jaume on his steed and the pigeons that call him home. Here I was, at the end of the line, the final de trajecta. Plaça d'Espanya.
