The greatest miracle of my travelling summers took place in the small town of Consuegra, by the windmills of Miguel de Cervantes. The day was scorching hot, and the air felt like boiling water scratching every living inch of my skin. The ground was dried and potholed by humourless sunshine. There was one full hour before my bus to Toledo, I was hopelessly dehydrated, and the cash I had was only enough for one bottle of water from an automatic machine. I inserted the coin, and nothing happened. The coin got stuck. Out of sheer desperation, I hit the machine with my hands, and - lo and behold! - two bottles came out. It took me one gulp to drink all that water, but I think I was saved that day.
Friday, 22 February 2019
travelling notes (lxxxii)
The greatest miracle of my travelling summers took place in the small town of Consuegra, by the windmills of Miguel de Cervantes. The day was scorching hot, and the air felt like boiling water scratching every living inch of my skin. The ground was dried and potholed by humourless sunshine. There was one full hour before my bus to Toledo, I was hopelessly dehydrated, and the cash I had was only enough for one bottle of water from an automatic machine. I inserted the coin, and nothing happened. The coin got stuck. Out of sheer desperation, I hit the machine with my hands, and - lo and behold! - two bottles came out. It took me one gulp to drink all that water, but I think I was saved that day.
