Up until the beginning of this week, summer was still lingering. Afternoons were bare arms and open windows. I chose the shady side of the street to walk in the coolness, a good five degrees cooler than the sun-drenched side. But a switch flipped, and suddenly it is fall/winter. Coats are out, scarves tucked in, and boots wrap my feet in warmth. "Spain has two seasons," a coworker tells me, "summer and winter!" And yes, it seems she is right.
I remember falls spent in Philadelphia, Chattanooga, and Greenville, where the trees were on fire, reds, oranges, and yellows lighting up the sky. The trees here aren't quite as beautiful, the colors not as bright, but scenes like the one below still remind me that even though everything in nature is dying on the outside, there's still a quiet, subtle beauty. And there's life underneath that will wait until just the right moment to bloom again and give us hope.
The trees may not be as big and distinctively fall-colored as back home, but I'd argue that the sky is more expressive. I've enjoyed walking to school in the crisp morning air and seeing the sky, brooding and pensive, a mess of blues and white-greys. This picture isn't the best representation of an Alcalá morning sky, but it gives you an idea of what I have the joy of seeing in the morning hours of my day.
Tonight, the crackle of leaves in the light breeze and something about the evening air made me momentarily feel like I was back on Lookout Mountain, and I was happy.