Te doy una canción como un disparo como un libro una palabra una guerrilla... como doy el amor.

I watched your sister being moved to tears by a Cuban pianist named Alejandro Vargas last night. Sitting in the smoky basement of a jazz club off the Paseo Marítimo, she turned to me and said, "This song is so sad." I thought about how music transcends language, that music can often relay meaning and sentiment more accurately and profoundly than words. While your sister wiped her eyes, and I squinted through the smoke at Alejandro Vargas and his two companions, on drums and upright bass, I felt a different softness in my heart, for nights spent at a jazz club in Manhattan called Smalls. That was 10 years ago.

The last song of the night was a version of "Te doy una canción" by revered Cuban folk singer Silvio Rodríguez. The piano, low chatter, and your sister humming the melody sweetly.

I left my country 20 days ago. Has it really been 20 days? Did you recognize me when I returned? We both agreed my accent sounds more American than when I left in June. And you were right - Almería is a windy city. My first few nights here, I couldn't sleep. The windows whistled and shook due to unrelenting gusts of wind. I thought the glass would shatter. I thought the wind was so loud that if anyone else were in the room with me, we'd have to scream to be heard.

But today it's much calmer, and I spent the whole afternoon on the beach, still unbelieving that I am here, on the Mediterranean Sea, and that the water was so clear I could collect shells around my feet.