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58 DAYS IN THE SUN
bread will pick it up hastily, kiss it two or three times
and then devour it. I have observed the same touching
apology among the peasantry in Denmark. If a fruit
or piece of meat falls to the floor, it will be kicked
under the bench; it is not valued, and the floor is very
dirty. But bread is sacred.
We leave the flat Sevillian landscape behind us. The
soil begins to roll and undulate. We no longer meet
familiar people at the stations; those who enter the
compartment here have sharper features, more re-
served expressions, more conservative clothing. They
carry balls of living chickens, tied together by the legs,
their heads reaching out on all sides like flowers in a
huge bouquet. Sacks of flour are thrown in, as well as
lambs, tied together in pairs by their hind legs. A few
dogs secure admission, establish themselves under the
seats and sniff about our heels. The men wear knee-
breeches, sandals, jackets that do not reach below the
belt, and rakish hats; they are smooth-shaven and fre-
quently pock-marked; there are a number of gypsies
among them.
As soon as I travel in the mountains, I begin to make
mistakes in my judgments of age; time appears unable
to create definite generations here. Young and old are
equally old-fashioned in costume and manners, equally
young in bearing and gesture. You have color of hair
and skin, and wrinkles only, to serve as guide to your
guessing, and these are deceptive. Those two old men
sitting opposite us are as active and slender as men of
twenty, but their close, short-cropped hair is sprinkled
with gray, hinting of half a century; and the few white
specks in their eyes inform me that they are much
older still.
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