In the morning we came out of the mountains and outside the window you could see the crowds lined up beside the tracks. They looked worried and cold and we rushed by them in a wind.
In the train, the Spanish cooked eggs in iron frying pans that they heated with the bright blue flames of a plumber’s aceytelene torch. They held the pan with wool mittens and they kept the precious eggs in the absurdly tall hats they wore. They would reach into the them like a magician and produce a magic breakfast. They made some for us in exchange for vidigraphs that they showed around the train to riotous laughter. Eve had been right. It was becoming like a fiesta.
