This is today in the quiet tiny village of San Juan, north Ibiza. A crooked old man walks with the help of his stick under a bright lemoncoloured autumntree. It is quiet and still, and everyone here know everyone here and everyone is quiet in the winter and enjoying the little moment and the rays of lemoncoloured beauty.
This is Noam. This winter, he has turned into the master soup maker. He makes chicken soup and he makes mushroom soup (to die for) and I am extremely, deliciously, childishly happy about this. I grew up eating soup. I am made of Polish soups. Soup entering my body falls like a warm, motherly waterfall straight into my heart.
This is Xucla. She is not a dog. She hates being in the back of the car. She prefers the front passenger seat. She warms us at night (and steals most of the space in the bed) and she makes me smile like a thousand times every day. She is pure and honest love and I never would have thought in my whole long long that I could ever love a not-dog this much.