Azahar

My time here is drawing to a close. I definitely relate to Einstein's theory of time now: that it is relative. All those physicists who subscribe to the theory of quantum mechanics...I am sorry, i just don't experience the world that way. Some yesterdays feel like ten years ago and some events ten years ago feel like yesterday. I remember when I first arrived here and I really had no idea what I was doing here. Somewhere between then and now I felt like I might actually figure some things out, but now that the end swiftly approaches, I realize I still have no idea. Although I have found and put to together some pieces of this strange Spanish puzzle, I never found all the pieces and thus, never put them together and never will. But this is not something I wish to dwell on incessantly as it would tie my brain into knots if I allowed it.
Instead, I would rather focus on what it has all come to in this moment for me. I digress, for a moment, to reflect on the past few months, the winter months. True, I live in Andalucia, a place which is not especially well known for harsh winters, but it was through the Andalucian winter that I discovered how dependently I have lived in climate controlled environments. My apartment is old, for starters. One of the oldest in the town, which means it has a lot of character, but which also means it has poor insulation and there is no hope for heating its wide open and fully tiled spaces. I was actually bitter towards the damp cold that moved in and settled for a few months, trying to fight it, argue with it, plead for it to go away. It made changing clothes a painful task. But at some point , however, it was necessary to reconcile with my pathetic excuse for homeostasis and my ancient quarters and commit to always wearing at least 4 layers. Now, the sun has slowly but surely been shining closer, brighter and warmer, daily shucking a layer or two of clothing.
I am now living in a world where the fecundity of the orange trees' perpetual bulbous winter fruits was recently replaced by tiny unassuming white buds. There is one name for these citrus flowers whether they belong to the lemon, mandarin, clementine or orange trees: Azahar. The word, when spoken, is expelled like a breath, perfectly suited to the fragrance that overtakes its surroundings like a coat of sweet syrup. Its intensity recalls the scent of the Wisteria, the Mimosas and the Honeysuckle from back in Georgia. It puts my senses in a slow dreamlike state. The swallows have returned to their previously abandoned mud nests and every morning and evening they perform their agile aeronautic, acrobatic feeding frenzy. The storks too have made themselves more visible, settling down in pairs into huge nests built atop whatever tall isolated structures they can find. These are the things which keep me absolutely happy, isolated from the students who baffle me daily, either delightedly or frusteratingly.