I
have no
idea why
that particular
song was
stuck in
my head.
I was
going up
a Colombian
hill, and
the surrounding
area, steep,
grassy, rocky
and alive
with different
sounds and
colours could
hardly remind
me of
the seashore.
It was
too far
off that
picture. However,
on I
trudged, short
of breath
and sweating,
or glowing,
as my
Mum would
say, under
the layers
of extra
clothes, but
happily murmuring
“Mare, vull ser
pescador, vull ser pescador
i no frare, que
sóc fill de pescador,
i malgrat el teu
dolor jo tinc les
venes salades… mare, vull
fer-me a la mar,
mare, vull fer-me a
la mar, i que
em bressin les onades…”
No
one seemed
to mind
my breathless
humming.They
probably didn’t
hear it,
anyway. Everyone
was too
busy carrying
their load
and minding
not to
slip.
Such
a walk!
Such an
experience! Still, the
most vivid
memory of
it all,
besides the
spectacular
flowers and
the exertion
of that
loaded twenty
minute trek
uphill, was
singing that
song and
wistfully
remembering the
beautiful,
lulling sound
of the
foamy waves
crashing on
the shores
back home.
