The night train to Lisbon

The sleeper left Hendaye a little after nine, and by the time the lights of the border towns had thinned out I had already given up on sleep.

What follows is a letter about the eleven hours between two cities, and about why the slow way in changes the city you arrive in.

There is a particular kind of attention that only arrives when you cannot hurry. You notice the way the conductor folds the blankets, the way the dining car empties at midnight, the way the landscape turns from green to ochre somewhere past Salamanca.