On Postcards...

Lola sat down at a tiny table on the sidewalk in front of the bodega and ordered a glass of flinty rose. It was frying pan hot. That plus the sound of motorbikes whizzing past wore her out. She had traveled all summer and now, twelve weeks without a pedicure, waxing or haircut, and with only a couple of drunken one-nighters and a stupid dragonfly tattooed onto her hip to show for it, she was more than eager to fly home the next day.

Well, that wasn't really true, Lola thought. She leaned down and removed a stack of postcards from her backpack. There was that amazing show of Spanish cubist paintings at the Prado, and the bullfight in Toledo where the matador got roughed up a bit. Not to mention that flamenco club in Seville, polka-dot dresses whirling into the night. Maybe, she thought, I'll just write a few postcards before I go, try to give my friends the flavor of this place. Ooh, can't forget that place down south with the flamingos...all those sunsets...amazing seafood...the great guy in the antique fan shop. She began to write:

Dear Matt,

Wish you could have been with me
last week at the corrada (that's
bullfight to you!)....

As travellers, our senses are ignited by the various sights, sounds and smells of a new place, an almost-familiar face, or a heart stopping experience that may be as simple as a fresh piece of sugar cane straight from the field, or as exotic as a safari in Africa. But it is the poet who distills these impressions and arranges them in such a way to distinguish these moments in the memory, the way a master perfumer blends a dozen herbs, flowers and rare essences to evoke a response.

Chris Cantu, Co-editor