Cartagena, Spain

We arrive when it’s still dark but as soon as the sun is up and I tear away from the goings on, the town of Cartagena fills me with memories of grandiose plans and romance. Row after row of yachts of all sizes bob in the marina. Buildings from every age thrust up from the sandy soil, and there is a handsome promenade to separate the two.

“What I want,” I tell Draga, who is always interested to hear what I want, “is to drive the entire southern coast line of Europe, in a camper.”

“We’re buying a camper now, hm?” she says with a tone of gentle forgiveness in her voice. “Is that before or after you build our house in Belgrade, with a library for you to work in and with a tower that overlooks the Danube? Coffee and donuts on the balcony? To the theater twice a week?”

“You’re forgetting the indoor swimming pool and the sauna,” I say. I have the tendency to loose grip on monetary reality after three months of hard work, 12 hours per day with barely any recreation. I also want a live-in kitchen and a yard to run around in.

Then we stare out over the town, imagining having the time to even see each other for longer than a coffee break once or twice a day. We’re both exhausted. We’re losing weight like drunk dromedaries. “I just want to be with you in a tiny little space and hold you,” she says while my eyes follow the road that meanders along the coast and up the hills, past an ancient looking building and across the horizon. A camper it is then, I hear myself say. Draga holds me closer for a brief moment. Then she has to go.

 

Cartagena, Spain



Cartagena, Spain



Cartagena, Spain

Cartagena, Spain