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For many centuries, Valencia was surrounded by walls. They protected the city and the sources of its wealth – silk, oranges, ceramics, olives, rice – from Muslims, pirates, and other invaders until the middle of the 19th century, when they were demolished so that the city could expand. Two gates survive. The painting shows one of them, Las Torres de Serrano, constructed in 1392.

The river Turia was also important to the health and wealth of Valencia, but a terrible flood in 1957 destroyed a large part of city and swept away the homes of thousands of residents in the surrounding area. At least eighty people lost their lives. The city redirected the river around the city so that it still empties into the Mediterranean. But what to do with the old river bed?

The city wanted to construct highways in it and, naturally, real estate developers wanted skyscrapers, but the citizens rebelled and fought back. “The bed of the Turia is ours,” was the rallying cry, “and we want green!” Against all odds, the people prevailed. An urban forest of thousands of pine trees were planted, along with orange and palm trees. Fountains and rose gardens were added, along with a concert hall, soccer pitches, an opera house, bars and cafés, ponds, even a baseball diamond. The park now meanders nearly 6 miles and comprises more than 450 acres. In it you’ll find runners, acrobats, families, T’ai Chi practitioners, children of all ages, gymnasts, picnics and playgrounds. Oh yes, and cyclists, like the bride.

Where she came from and where she was going I don’t know. I would love to have heard her story, but she was in a hurry and we’re left only with what we’re able to imagine.

I remember: she met her on a bright afternoon in April. It was obvious to all of us that within minutes they had become enchanted with each other, and so they began an enchanted summer together. In April, the trees along the western side of the lake were in bloom and I had given up trying to paint the white blossoms rising and falling on the surface of the water. I gave up trying to paint the two of them as well, except for this little watercolor, in which only one appears.

I was her friend, their friend. We spent many hours together hiking and riding bicycles and talking about nothing I can remember now. Except for a song we loved, very popular during that summer. Sometimes it sounded faintly silly, like a lot of pop tunes, but the lyrics turned out to be prophetic: “I won’t be afraid of winter when I remember the summer when you used to love me.”

One evening, the heat of July inspired us to haul their bed out of the house into the orchard, to fall asleep listening to the songs of owls and crickets. One morning weeks later, we woke up, the two of them tangled in each other’s hair, our blue sheets covered with a blanket of yellow leaves.

It’s September in the painting. The days are still warm as summer lingers, but the hours of sunlight grow shorter. Soon the green mountains on the other side of the lake will be covered in white. She had cut her hair, and other things. She did not look back. I painted her as I remember her, hesitating slightly, but not looking back. Even when she stepped onto the boat and out of our lives forever, she didn’t look back.

The train ride from Madrid had been tiring. It was only my second visit to Spain and my first to Barcelona. It was nearly night when I checked into the hotel, so I paid little attention to the neighborhood, just collapsed into bed. But in the morning when I opened the curtains and saw these ruins across the street, it felt like the opening of a new day into what a future might become.

Creating images involves a lot of paying attention. You have to draw proportions of cars and people in relation to buildings, and also angles of light and shadow. Everything changes quickly. The man in the bottom left corner consulting the Metro schedule will either descend the steps into the subway or walk out of the picture. Someone will get into one of the cars and drive away; someone else will park another car. Meanwhile the sun rises higher, a family of five on their way home from Mass will appear. Then a bus or two, and a taxi on its way to the airport.

So the next mornings you open the curtains and continue to work. Gradually the thought occurs that you’re not simply painting light and colors, but layers of Time: The tattered posters advertise a concert that happens next week, or maybe it happened a week ago? The day you are painting, today, will in a few hours become another day, tomorrow. The Cine Nuevo is only a husk of what it had been. Behind it, the Teatro Nuevo, built in 1901 and rebuilt in 1922, is a relic skeleton of even earlier eras. (Only later you peel yet another layer: Both theaters burned to the ground in 1988.)

Over many years, through paintings like this, I created a future life on the other side of the world. In a week I’ll return to that home again. So until November, the next posts will come to you from Spain, adding, I hope, even more layers.