As some of you know, I'm doing a few online/email-based classes so I can play soccer when I come back to the US in the fall. One of these is a creative writing class, and I wrote a poem about Andorra for it. So here it is, raw and un-edited.
The wind is bitter and biting here,
Andorra
A country so small that I questioned
its existence.
Sandwiched between Spain and France, it
is as if it doesn’t want to be seen--
“Look! Why come here when Spain and France
are larger and better!”
Crossing over the border is almost
unremarkable,
except for the abandoned border checkpoint.
And suddenly, you’re not in Spain anymore.
There are mountains close on either side
of the winding road, but they aren’t
encroaching; rather, they
open up the sky and all the blue
spills into the earth and turns to green,
and brown.
On your right is a valley, with a ribbon
of sparkling river at the bottom. You don’t
know its name, so you name it instead,
because you’re sure Andorra wouldn’t mind.
You wonder how long it would take to
drive completely across this country.
Is it maybe as big as Rhode Island? Entering the
capital city, which is named, well, Andorra,
you see that
the streets aren’t exactly
clean. But why does that
matter when you can look at
the people?
Especially during Carnaval.
In fact, more adults than children are
dressed as something they’re not.
Which isn’t surprising,
when you consider all the dreams
they’ve had to give up as they’ve grown up.
Maybe Andorra is where all the
lost dreams go, anyway.
They fill in the cracks in the sidewalk
and they glue the snow to the mountain
and they manifest themselves
in the smiles of the people who realize
that they’re never really lost;
everybody dreams.
They speak Spanish here.
Castilian, to be exact.
You know, the Spanish that sounds
like water dripping off a leaf,
like they’ve let their tongues go numb.
“Hola!”
At least they can’t tell I’m American.
Did I mention the soccer here?
Or, more culturally correct, futebol.
It’s FC Barcelona against Arsenal. Guess
who they’re cheering for?
You feel bad for the only
Englishman in the room. He
might be in danger of being bodily harmed
by the diehard Barcelona fans.
GGGGGOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!
No, the glowering Englishman gets a drunken
peck on the cheek instead.
The next morning it’s all snow,
skis, snowboards and slush.
10 degrees Celsius, and there are some wearing
T-shirts, others wrapped in
woolen scarves and ugly coats.
The sun is out and the perfect untouched
snow is glistening in its rays,
but the stuff on the slopes has lost
that newborn luster.
Visible above the snow are the
tips of pine trees, reaching for fresh air
and sunlight,
gasping and trying to be free from
the suffocating cover that is the snow.
Waiting in line for the lift, you hear
different tongues and strange accents,
and instructors in blue snowsuits are
speaking a combination of languages
to get their point across.
This chairlift goes over the crest
of the hill and you can see into two valleys,
almost mirror images of each other,
except
one side is France, and
the other is Spain.
The wind is bitter and biting here,
stinging exposed skin with
whirlwinds of ice particles.
And you think,
this is probably one of those
“cosmic energy” sites,
like Sedona.
And maybe, just maybe,
those dreams are sitting atop the mountains,
waiting to be found.
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