Nov. 16 marked the anniversary of our arrival in Spain, and we passed the day in the same style as a year ago: sick with colds. Had I not been feeling so crummy that I failed to even notice the date, I might have at least appreciated the full-circleness of it.
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Signs of fall around these parts are different but unmistakable. It's less leafy than Vermont or Michigan but more drastic in its temperature swing than San Francisco. The endless evenings Spaniards relish and foreigners envy shrink at a rate that reminds me that we are indeed hurling around the sun in a elliptical path, and on the fast slope toward cold. The general falliness reminds me of—and makes me homesick for—Ann Arbor in a way I haven't felt in a really long time. The garden is yielding the last of its bounty as the remaining tomatoes struggle to ripen between shorter sun hours and increased rainy or cloudy days, the last of the fall lettuce has bolted and the peppers turn deliciously red.
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