The morning was fresco—fresh, cool rather than cold, not windy but with a flutter here and there in the remaining leaves on the trees. The air had a bit of edge to it. Jasper and I set off together. After just a few walks with this dog—my friend’s dog, whom I take out a couple of mornings a week to give her a break—I already have a favorite route, and he has no objection at all, as far as I can tell. He prances beside me on his leash like an eager two-year-old at the downs, raring to go. And that’s appropriate, because one of our morning aspirations is to have him go—and he usually does, twice. I’m glad to report this to my friend afterward so she doesn’t have to worry about it. She has a baby, and that’s more than enough to think about.
But this morning, Jasper did not do his business, not even once. I took him this way, I took him that way; I led him past grassy patches, up to the water tower, through the Parque de Música. At every juncture, I said, “Look at all the green! Look at all the grass! How inviting! How enticing! Go see what you can do!”
Jasper pranced past every likely spot. He was eager, but not for that. Wasn’t even one of the spots good enough?
And that’s the thing: You don’t just need a spot. You need a spot you like. I learned that about a dozen years ago in Sanlúcar de Barrameda, when we went to see the horses race on the beach. It was August, high tourist season, and the little town was jammed. You could drive round and round the narrow streets and not find even a corner to wedge a car into. Then, lo and behold, a spot!
“Look, look!” I said from the backseat, leaning forward, pointing. “There!”
The driver—my running partner—didn’t answer. He drove past. I stared after the space. It was perfect. By that point, we had been circling for 25 minutes. Any spot was perfect. His daughter turned in her seat beside him and gave me a weary look.
“It’s not enough to find a spot,” she said. “You also have to like it.”
I’ve thought about that ever since. You’d think a spot would feel like good luck. But a spot is nothing. A spot you like—now that’s something. And the longer you search, the more desperate you get, the more you require of the spot. Naturally—you’ve invested so much in time and energy, you want a commensurate return. Unless you’re like me. The longer I go with no return, the less I require. Jasper knows that already. By the end of our walk that day, I was praising him for nothing more than sniffing and marking.
When I took him home, my friend guessed an extra-long walk the previous evening had taken care of things.
In Sanlúcar, we eventually did find a parking spot that would do. Hallelujah, I thought. The driver was not equally relieved. He wasn’t frazzled, just beyond impatient—fed up with the process. As we clamored out, he said that he’d been about to give up entirely and drive back to the town where we were staying.
“If not for you,” he said to his daughter—then turning slightly to include me—“and you, I’d have left 20 minutes ago.”
The races were impressive. The sand kicked up by the horses was a sight to remember. But what I remember—still recall clearly after more than a dozen years, and remember better than the tourists, the ice creams, the crowded streets, more even than the horses and the waves, is the driver: locking the car once we were out, pocketing the keys, and stalking off. Not ahead of us, not away from us—just off, frowning, alone with his unassailable requirements.
