At four in the afternoon, all shops close in Spanish cities. Abuelitas click back the locks of their delis, men in ties close the doors of their vermouth bars while lighting a cigarette, and the city pauses. Except for the buses that continuously rumble, crossing painted pavement and cobblestone, rushing past the beach and through the center of town. Sometimes I’d ride them in no particular direction but up the hill and out of the city. Clattering over the potholes of rural communities, I’d look out the window, often coated in dust, and think of my home in California. And the bus would loop back again, past rows of vines and olive trees and little stucco houses, rolling down the tree-lined hill into town. By the time I’d step off the bus, the shops would be reopening, children would be running in the park and laughing, couples would be arguing, their shouts pouring out of opened windows. I’d sit at a table outside of a cafe, sip a glass of crisp white and drink the world in, thanking the bus for reminding me of routes, of loops, of always returning home.