We wound our way to the exit through tightly packed tour groups. As we slid down the long cable, clouds formed and mist curled through the grey cliffs. Presented with their concrete, ephemeral beauty, I knew I would never fully comprehend what happened to me. And yet, I would seek to understand for the rest of my life. Dawn sat gripping her elbows, visibly nervous as the car rocked in the wind. I wanted to believe I was superior to her. Because I wasn’t afraid the cable would break. Because the Madonna had chosen me. Because I wasn’t thrilled by the latest hot restaurant. Because my faith, if I developed it, would be less blind than hers. But the monk’s stern glare reminded me: though I’d seen Dawn’s entire life, I didn’t know her. My view had still been like an x-ray, an image of the inside while standing outside. I had no idea how she experienced the totality of herself.
We rode the R5 line back, absently scrolling on our phones, then hailed a taxi at the España station. When we returned to the hotel, Matteo was standing in the lobby with our luggage, smiling for Dawn’s benefit. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that my antics might cost Matteo his job.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
Dawn and I both looked at him like he was crazy. He stopped smiling.
“Dawn, thank you so much,” he said. “I don’t know that I would have found her.”
“No,” she said. “She probably would’ve flown the coop, to be honest.”
She was right. I hadn’t imagined returning to the cool air of the hotel, or Matteo. I might have taken the R5 line as far as it went and kept walking from there.
To me, she said, “You’re not the only one who’s seen things. You need to be more grateful for what you have.”
She walked to the elevators without turning back. Even if Matteo wasn’t fired, I doubted I would see her again.
As soon as we got in the cab, Matteo began to pepper me with questions I was too fried to answer. When we arrived at our hotel in San Sebastian, I opened the windows to let out the strong antiseptic smell.