Sweeping up the Sahara

The wind blew hard. Cars left parked outside are dust covered.

Few cars have garages, which could almost make New York or London real estate look cheap. Well not totally. Some of the Catalans living in several-centuries old houses use their ground floor, which once housed cattle and chickens, to park their cars. But none of the transplants from the north of France nor other countries would waste the space on a car when it could be a kitchen or living room.

The dust has entered my flat leaving a fine coat on my sideboard, dishes, table, mantle and floor. I dust. I sweep it up, realising that it has travelled across the Mediterranean and I wonder if it once was stepped on by a camel. Had a Bedouin put up a tent over it and sat there with his family drinking tea and talking about the next day's plan? Or had it just sat there undisturbed until the wind picked it up for its journey?

No matter what happened to it before its journey, it had no control at all of its destiny. In a way it is like humans who can make little decisions, but are unable to change the direction of a hurricane, a downsizing company firing them, or a nation deciding to drop bombs on their home.

Sand doesn’t talk. I wish it did. There is much I would like to talk to it about.