By the second day I know I've made a mistake. On a 2+ hour train ride to a city the Moors named a sewer, I wake up from a disturbing dream to find myself transformed into a traveling salesman. Rushed across Castilla La Mancha, I repeat myself on every occasion. Sometimes it takes a full hour. Sometimes I race through it all in 45 minutes and let others speak. I'm sure I could do it in under half and hour if I find someone who understands English. For everything said must be translated and takes twice as long. The delay makes conversation like a long-distance phone call. Lucia, my interpreter, takes careful notes whenever I speak and maps out my thoughts like a soccer coach's offensive, substituting proper nouns with hieroglyphs. I ask her to teach me her code so that I know what I'm about to say. In any case I am only speaking to her, only she needs to understand me. I try to help and repeat myself predictably. Cut off from my surroundings, and with so little to think about, I begin to plummet down towards the sad, destructive thoughts that have kept me company those last few months in Hebron. Love, loss, and lust - I give a very good presentation on that.
Lucia is sincere and sympathetic and on this last leg of the trip we talk about peace profiteering and careers in the industry and disgust. She's a master's student, so she's heading for a longer ride. UN, UNESCO, UNRWA, EU, USAID - these are the clients she will have. Who else crosses national and cultural borders deaf and dumb?