(c) Markku Lindroos
In Seville's Plaza de España, a beautiful woman dances flamenco to the accompaniment of a guitar. Her red skirt, with its many overlapping folds, is like a blazing flame above her flashing legs. On her hips rests an orange-fringed, floral-patterned shawl, and a large rose blooms in her pitch-black hair.
I sit here, preparing for my session with Helen. There are several issues at hand, some of them severe. She has been under immense strain over the past two years, and a year ago, she was even admitted to a psychiatric facility for a few days. They found her difficult to cooperate with there, as she viewed her stay at...
The morning lingered in the fog. I walked along the Boulevard de la Madeleine toward the old Opera and went to the same café as the previous morning. I ordered an English breakfast with a café americano—which was basically a double espresso, a fried egg with toast, and a pat of hard butter. The cocky waiter didn't give me a...
