I was looking at photos of the small Castilian village where my father was born. He happily worked in another small village until I was three or so. We moved to a city at my mother's insistence, for our education.

Many years after, he told us stories about the time when he helped a man who could not afford to pay the vet to treat his pig, who had what sounds to me like sepsis, or the neighbour who could not repair a metal barrel.

At times I stop and think about my life, noting how in a way, it mirrors my father's. I don't see myself giving penicillin to a pig anytime soon though.

The Homeric pain of homecoming resonates with me. I find myself humming old Spanish Renaissance tunes as I go about my daily work in this green and pleasant land. In my dreams, a ray of Mediterranean sun caresses my arms, and lulls me to sleep. Birds sing in the garden, summer calls me home.