his hair is white and pulled back.
other men stand around him; two in suits, two in blue jeans with loose, short sleeved button-up shirts. they speak and some smoke cigarettes.
i meet a older man from texas. his name is frank. we joke that they do not make us pay a fare until we've arrived because they will only charge us for the distance we successfully cover. we are only partially joking.
frank wrote advertising copy and movie scripts. he liquidated all his assets and left for europe.
'all i have,' he tells me, 'is in this bag,' he pats a buttery leather weekender, 'and in the back of this minibus. it's been three years.' he doesn't even have insurance. he is betting on his own health. it is a bold but thought-through bet for a 77 year old. i hope that no one steals his case from the trunk of the bus.
occasionally, the hills are dug out for stone. the quarries interrupt the landscape like a wrong note.
on the streets, male friends walk in pairs arm in arm. there's an intimacy here that i don't recognize. it's comforting.