lorenzo (Spanish, colloquial)
(n) the sun
Today was one of those rare days of this month that I allowed myself to stop, and silently watch the sunset. I have been so caught up with the extra workload, the accident setting me back, and the excitement and stress of the upcoming long working holidays in the horizon.
I stood there, on the bridge, watching the kooky pirate ship they take tourists on, up and down the river. The swift rowers, cutting through the water. The ducks fluttering their feathers in the banks that, being a warm day, were streaked with towels, people, and pets in varying stages of relaxing, partying and Apollo-worshipping.
As I watched the gigantic, red ball, dip lower and lower into the horizon, I thought about all the other moments that I stood, exactly the same, contemplating my life. Not too long ago, well, half a decade ago (How time flies!), I stood in the shores of Lahaina, wondering, pondering, planning my then upcoming trip to Spain, which would later then just be called, the move to Spain.
The idea of Spain came to me out of nowhere really. It was a warm, winter’s day and I was working at the harbor. I was planning my yearly sabbatical with a friend, when it occurred to me “what about Spain?”. I had never been to Europe before. It was expensive. It had a whole lot of complicated visas attached to it. I barely spoke any Spanish. It would be a real grown-up destination for me, not just backpacking through some South American or Asian country where all I pretty much had to do was show up. This would require actual planning and preparation.
It was exciting. It was frightening. It smelled of freedom, youth, and adulthood at the same time. I had grown accustomed to Maui by that time. I had the most beautiful views right at my doorstep, a fantastic job, comfortable group of friends. But I was still searching, somewhere, something was calling to me. As much as I loved the islands, I knew that I had to go where the wind blows.
And so, that’s how I ended up in the land which charmingly calls the sun Lorenzo. No one is quite sure why it came to be. Some say it’s from a song, some say it’s because St. Lawrence was roasted over burning embers (the morbidity fascinates me), some say that it’s because the day that they celebrate the said saint is usually the hottest day of the year.*
Half a decade later, I stood there, staring at the same setting sun. This time looking back, not onwards. Not regretfully, a touch of nostalgia perhaps, but content. Complacent with the fact that wherever I may be in the world, whoever I may turn into, friends I may lose, friends I may gain, Lorenzo will always be there to keep me company at dusk.