He notices different things than I do. The columns of steel and stone at a construction site, the small tires of go-karts stacked against a fence, the burn marks atop a toilet where men have rested their cigarettes. He bends to put his hand on the Roman bridge. 2000 years of feet passing over. All day we walk through villages with stone houses and rose gardens, through vineyards already harvested. Corn. Kiwi. Apples. Collards. He carries his pack to prove something to himself. For awhile his feet are on fire, but after coffee and vegetable soup at the tavern he is bold with new ideas. Beside the river, through eucalyptus and pine, all the way to Porriño, where he rests for the afternoon and the traffic idles below. 

October 8, 2015

Tui to Porriño

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