The rest they say, is history ....

San Sebastian 11.09.01 9.am
written ten years on....

Sitting in the sun over looking a wide circle of a bay
San Sebastian/Donostia
listening to a piece of music, to this day I don't know the name of.
Who was the composer?
It played as a merry go round behind us whirred and warmed up.
This day, this moment in particular seemed perfect.
I said to you, " If I were a film maker, or we were in a film.."
my hands moved out in front of me, spanning over the bay.
"..the camera would film all this, it would be the start of the film,
the camera would pan out over the bay,
get the sunlight, the water, the music would be playing like it is now.
Maybe it would get louder as the camera panned back to us here,
sitting here on this seat."
" Its such a beautiful day, it's almost too perfect, in the film,
or if this was a film,
the next scene something terrible would be happening."

"Somewhere else," you said.

"maybe an explosion." I said.

" a horrible explosion!" we said.

We sat with the sun on our faces, voices low.
We reflected on how we had
worked hard
traveled well
no longer with companions, always with companions,
we had only each other
this moment now.
With our packs at our feet we sat facing the Atlantic,
noting how it went all the way to New York,
where we had just been before the Basques took us in.
We had not yet met that guy on the way to the train station
who offered us a joint and to told us about the revolution.
We had not yet caught our train to Barcelona or plane to India.
The next part of our lives was yet to begin.
The lightest thing we carried was the feeling the world was our oyster.
and we did not yet know it was always just that,
a feeling.