The Woman in Valencia

she’d cart home from her travels and then couldn’t bring herself to part with. She’d developed the habit back when she was writing travel guides for the Discovery series. Whenever she’d get home from another trip, she’d tuck the pile of papers, crumpled from being haphazardly folded, unfolded and refolded, into plastic sleeves, which she’d label in marker “Spain 2009,” for example. She told herself she’d go through them one day, the evidence of her travels and all the time she’d spent abroad. But she never touched them again.

KILOMETRE 16

… already fifteen kilometres down, feeling great, we’re near the Río again, I know that white bridge over there, the La Peineta Bridge over the Turia gardens, the one designed by Calatrava, it reminds me of the one near the Guggenheim in Bilbao, of that picture of me and my mother, the one where I’m crouched at her feet, utterly fascinated by the glass tiles under us, I’d thought about carrying a picture of you, but I was worried it would get all crumpled and faded, which would only end up depressing me, so instead I fastened the safety pins from the race bib you wore during your last marathon against my breast, that’s all I could find in the way of a good luck charm, a few rusty pins…

KILOMETRE 17

… for the past little while, I’ve felt light, like a sixty-kilogram gust of air, bodiless but at the same time deeply rooted, I glide, skin against wind, leaping, landing, taking off again, like nothing can stop me, not pain or exhaustion, the city is my oyster, I’m not intimidated by the distance, I’m no longer afraid, momentum is a powerful thing, I’m a body in motion, in my mind’s eye I’m seeing a slideshow of all the pictures I’ve looked at so often: my mother, looking cool in her apple-green sweater, one elbow resting on the handle of my stroller, striking a pose next to a fountain in Grenada, legs crossed, hip cocked, stray locks framing her face, she’s holding my hand and smiling down at me, my dad took the picture; my mother, hugely pregnant in the garden, a few days before my brother was born, a magnolia tree in full bloom behind her, I’m kissing her belly, chubby in my ruffled dress, dimple in my cheek, nose pressed up against the taut skin of her stomach, she’s wearing sunglasses and her pink lips are formed into a mysterious half-smile…

KILOMETRE 18

Watch your posture, Laure. Stand up straight, Laure.

… I straighten up, an imaginary steel wire pulling my head straight up toward the sky, I picture my mother cracking her neck, my mother and her migraines, her neck muscles so often pinched, when I was little she’d ask me to massage her temples and I’d oblige with my tiny hands, she’d often lie on her stomach and tell me to write something on her back, I remember spending hours on the couch, long winter afternoons sliding my fingers under her cashmere sweaters, into her warmth, she was always so good at figuring out what I was spelling on her skin, often guessing the word after the second or third letter, yelling out Cat! Flower! I love you! Poop!

… when it was my turn to guess, you’d write long, complicated words and I’d ask you to start over again and again, just so I could savour the feeling of you tickling my back for a little while longer…

KILOMETRE 19

… we’re doubling back now on the Blasco Ibáñez stretch from earlier, passing the last runners headed the other way, they’re only on kilometre 9, there’s that determined lady who already looks like she’s in trouble, and that skinny old man still shuffling along, he must be about eighty…

Stay strong, Laure. Don’t slow down, keep going, you can do it.

KILOMETRE 20

I was looking for you, are you gone gone?

Called you on the phone, another dimension.

Well, you never returned, oh you know what I mean.

I went looking for you, are you gone gone?

… huge apartment buildings, so much boring, brown stucco, they seriously need to plant some trees around here…

Down by the ocean it was so dismal,

Women all standing with a shock on their faces.

Sad description, oh I was looking for you.

… I think the beach is at the end of this street where the tram goes, we’re running toward the sea, but we never actually see it, the sweat is trickling down my temples, I’m trying not to think about how hot it’ll be at noon, now that the sun’s out…

Picked up my key, didn’t reply.

Went to my room, started to cry.

You were small, an angel, are you gone gone?

… the air is heavy and suffocating, not at all fresh, grey and scorching hot, and that annoying sun, melting my resolve, down by the ocean it was so dismal, I wonder what dismal means…

You’ll never return into my arms ’cause you were gone gone.

Never return into my arms ’cause you were gone gone.

Gone gone, gone gone, goodbye.

NOT TO BE MISSED:

PUERTA DE SERRANOS

Cutting through the back streets of Ciutat Vella, trailing other pedestrians who seem to have a better idea of where they’re going, Claire ambles toward the Puerta de Serranos. She walks in without paying and climbs to the top of the tower that she wasn’t brave enough to visit six years earlier. At the top, she tries to pick out the Valencia Palace Hotel in the distance but can’t find it. Suddenly, her head starts spinning. Her legs go weak; looking down at the street below, she thinks: The woman could have jumped from here. There’s nothing stopping anyone from straddling the thick wall punctuated with crenellations and arrow slits. It would be so easy to throw yourself off the top of this tower, if you felt so