changes...

My new flat is on the outskirts of town, with a balcony that overlooks a small plaza and an old church. The church bells chime every quarter hour, so loudly that my father, on the phone to me one day on the strike of 12, wanted to know if i was living inside the church.

From where I sit, if I lift my glance slightly to shut out the unsightly jumble of factory buildings below, I look across to the green manicured landscape of the cooperativa headquarters on the hill opposite. To the left the view is unremarkable, the eye travels down the street lined with row upon row of 1960s housing developments, to the right, past the last straggle of houses the view opens up to rolling green hills and mountains in the distance. It's quiet here, away from the bustle and chaos of the town centre. There is plenty of light. This is a Good Thing.

From my vantage point I watch the comings and goings of people in the plaza. The dawn and dusk parade of the dog walkers and the pram pushers, teenage couples necking on the benches, kids playing football, men taking the rubbish out. With time I have come to identify the good citizens of the dog walking community, those who set out armed with little plastic bags to dispose of their pets' business, and then there are the others who leave the offering where it lies, waiting to catch the unwary passerby. I make a mental note to myself to never walk on the grass. Ever.

There is one dog who never fails to delight. I call her Crazy Poodle. A little grey bundle of pure energy, she shoots off like a bullet from a gun when released from her leash, and races around the square, up and down the street, a toda hostia*, as they like to say here. She'd give a whippet a run for its money.

On Sundays I watch the ever dwindling processions of the faithful leaving the church after midday mass. They are mostly elderly, and I'm yet to see anyone under the age of 60 leave the building. I wonder who will go to church when all the old people have gone.

And so, I familiarise myself with my new neighbourhood and my new neighbours. My move here, of course, did not go unnoticed, but with the passing of time the looks have changed from open stares of curiosity to more familiar nods of greeting. Changes...


* ir a toda hostia = to go like the clappers