...Our rental apartment faced on the port, with two windows to paint from, in the event of inclement weather. There was none, and the aroma of the sea and fresh fish wafted across the balcony. I watched the fishermen come ashore and ran downstairs to buy fresh rouget and pageot. There were other fish, as well, still flipping in the hopper.
...In the hills above Collioure we painted the colorful vines as they were being clipped to sleep through the winter. A man with a boy on a donkey clomped by us and I thought of Christmas.
We painted young men mending their nets and cleaning their boats, beneath the gaze of broad shouldered retired fisherman who sat around the port. Older women lined up on a stony ledge in the sun fluttered into conversation as I passed.
The violent winds of the Pyrenees blew as we ate lunch outdoors, and walked along the piers. Sailboats at dock pitched 30 degrees, a swinging metronome from our bedroom window. I love the wind, carrying new ideas, along with Mary Poppins. "Those winds make people crazy," P (a doctor) cautioned. I guess it depends on what kind of ideas they blow in...
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