I arrived in Donostia on Thursday evening on the first weekend of August. The summer rains had recently given way to fresh sunlight as the city bustled with life. Tourists burst forth onto the narrow ally’s lined with shops and bars, hoping to catch rays of light breaking past buildings. Only one more day separated residents and transplants from the cannon launch, signifying the start of Grande Semana. Sitting alone in Konstituzio Plaza I spent the early part of the night alternating between wine and cigarettes as the marching band rehearsed for tomorrow.
I exit the subway into the orange evening of summer and make my way up the street to my apartment. Half drunk and stumbling up the Lexington Avenue and 103rd street my mind is being bombarded with an array of emotions. Taking in my longtime neighborhood for the final time I am running the full gamut from uncontainable sentimentality to an unbridled excitement.
The alarm clock echoes in my ear as the morning light begins to make its way through the gaps of my blinds. Time to wake up; Angelina has already left for the morning to run the last minute errands that go along with moving across the world. This last month has been fucking HECTIC! I spent about three of those weeks trying to explain to my mother why her only son leaving her, as she put it. Hopefully she does not try to hold me hostage when we meet for lunch to say goodbye.