I’m a privileged camper. Yesterday morning, rushing to my early appointment to the American Consulate to renew my American passport on a TGIF day, I was able to help my neighbor Señora Badía. I found her trembling on her cane at the corner of Calle Casanovas. She’s almost ninety. This is a woman who has given birth to ten children. She’s had fractures and operations and she has Parkinson’s. When I asked where she was going, she told me she needed a taxi, so I hailed one, not quite sure if she knew or would remember where she was headed. But she knew. She knew exactly! She was headed to the pool, to Piscina Sant Miguel, my pool, her pool, our pool! I helped her into the back seat and she gave the driver explicit directions. That’s when I noticed—her backpack! I tucked it in behind her and ran to get the bus. Here I am, a few hours later, in my Present Thinking Spot. I’m alive! It’s sunny! It’s warm! The sky is a robin’s-egg-blue! I don’t sweep the purple leaves from the Flowering Plum. I feel privileged to have dry leaves at my feet. In a city like Barcelona today, with the smell of chocolate wafting up from the bakery, and the chirp’chirp-tweet of the Greenflnches waiting to feed, being able to sit in a jungle and write is a privilege almost beyond words.