Other Voices Magazine

The Monthlies

Winner January 2009

For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move – Robert Davis Stevenson

it’s a blessing

The sea serpent bench in Park Gϋell is long and curved, decorated with all shapes and colours and sizes of smashed ceramics. The mosaic crests like a wave across the concrete. It is hot summer dusty. Tourists scatter across the wide plaza, posing for photos against the backdrop of hazy Barcelona, snip-snapping their memories for later.

She sits with her back to the view and gulps from the water bottle he hands her.
“I’m so hot,” she says, and drinks some more, uncaring of the condensation that drips down the bottle and lands on her shirt.

He sits beside her. “Do you need anything?”
“I’m okay.”
“Because I want to climb to the top of the mountain. There’s supposed to be a great view.”
“This is pretty nice,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder.
“Everyone sees this view.”
“Has to be something different, right?”
“It’s what we said we were going to do.”
“The unexpected.”
“Yes.” He looks at the map in his hand. “It shouldn’t take too long to get up there.”
“Your speed or mine?”
“We’ll go together.”
“Right, of course.” She takes off her hat and fans herself with it.
“Nothing will really change. Look at us now, we’re travelling.”
“Yes.” “Just like we said we would. Afterwards, we’ll go to the Ramblas. We can sit, have a drink.”
“You can have a drink.”
“You can have juice. A limonata.”
“I want sangria. I saw some people yesterday drinking sangria out of goblets as big as goldfish bowls.”
“We could get some to take home.”
“The sangria wouldn’t last.”
“No, the glasses. We could have a sangria party later and you could drink out of them.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“Sure it will. Everything will be the same.”
“You think so?”
“The same, but better.”

She watches two boys coming towards them. They are skipping on the bench, jumping from one color puddle to the next.

“Are you ready to go?” he asks.
“Not yet. My back hurts.”
“Are you—“
“No. It just aches.”
“I can carry your bag.”
“I just need to sit for a few minutes.”
He looks around. “Maybe I’ll go look over there.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”

“I’ll wait.” He leaves and she drinks some more water, draining the bottle. The boys are still hopping, coming closer to her. They are high above the city, silhouetted against the Catalan sky.

One of them slips, his foot surfing the slick surface, and he lurches sideways, towards the back of the bench, towards the edge that drops away.

She half-rises, gasping. She is too far from him to help.

The boy sprawls, spread-eagled on the colorful tile.

She sinks down, bending forward slowly to pick up the bag she has knocked down. As she straightens, she sees a tiny cherub set into the tile beside her. It is part of a plate that has been broken and pieced back together. There is a word written on the plate, baked into the glaze. Bendición.

Elissa Vann Struth warps time and space in vancouver. but only between the hours of four and six a.m.

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