As planned, I spent yesterday at the beach. It was gorgeous: a hot day but not uncomfortably so, perfectly clear water that was just right for swimming. An amazing beach day. I brought a book but spent most of the time just soaking in the sunshine, looking out over the water, people-watching. The beach is always crowded, even in the middle of the afternoon. Walking to the bus later along the palm-lined boardwalk, the idea of leaving this city seemed impossible. I spent the evening drinking claras on the terrace, then met Andrew at a nearby bar/café when he finally got back from Madrid.
And today—Wednesday—is packing day. There is so much to do—I feel almost paralyzed by it—and after today the departure is going to be so much more real. At least a messy, strewn apartment looks lived in. A packed-up apartment just looks sad. I actually feel sick. The horrible, hollow feeling of imminent departure has set in, and I feel uncomfortably between places, ghostlike. Perhaps we can put this off for another day and just go to the beach again. Perhaps we can put this off for good and just stay.