The south of Spain is a vast landscape peppered with olive trees and dry, dusty hills of a parched green and brown hue.  The air is thin and free of humidity and the sun at dawn is incredibly bright, a hazy ember like that emitted by a forest fire.  The majority of Andalucia looks like a scene from an old Technicolor Western and indeed, in the province of Almeria, several Hollywood westerns were shot.  The scenery remains largely the same until you move west into the province of Cadiz, a region whose coast melts into the Atlantic Ocean rather than the Mediterranean and where arid mountains are replaced by rolling green hills.  "It looks like the Scottish countryside," remarked a Belgian friend as we leaned against the crumbling wall of a Moorish castle overlooking the town and surrounding fields of Jimena de la Frontera, a small pueblo where we camped one night. "Well, at least it's what I think the Scottish countryside would like look.  I've never been there."

Four of us were on a road trip through Andalucia, taking a look at as many of the small pueblos blancos, tiny towns perched on a mountain that were the frontier bases of Christianity after the reconquest from the Moors in the 1400s (hence, many of the towns end with the words de la frontera, of the frontier).  Oftentimes we would visit three or four in a day, tasting the special pastry of each town, admiring the delicate views, munching on jamon serano, and taking a short siesta in each town's Plaza de Espana, a central square that exists in more or less every Spanish city.

Tiring a bit of the gorgeous scenery (it was thrilling stuff, but view after view - 10 in 3 days - got to be too much) we headed south, towards the ocean and a site called Bolonia, where we had heard about a sand dune in a remote area next to some Roman ruins.  We arrived in the late afternoon and had a slow cafe con leche in a cafe that was constructed of all wooden logs.  It looked much more like a Swiss ski resort than a Spanish beachside coffee joint.  The beach below was nearly deserted.  The wind in Cadiz is ferocious.  There are kite and wind surfers all along the coast and the town of Tarifa - a hip surfer's paradise akin to a Californian enclave off Highway 1 - boasts the title of Kite Surfing Capital of Europe.  But the beach in Bolonia is free of kite surfers by law, and because of the angry winds there are hardly any sunbathers.  To the north and east were rolling green hills and, closer to the coast, an untouched white beach.  To the south, the sparkling Atlantic, and to the west, the rising mobile mountain of la duna. 

It was early April and the weather was golden but chilly.  I took off my shoes and felt the unstable cool embrace of spring sand below.  Tom, Yannick, Gwendo and I began walking, tired from too little tent sleep, hundreds of kilometers of driving, and walking around uphill towns.  The light was soft and low, as it was only an hour and a half before dusk, casting long shadows.  Walking towards the dune, there were small row fishing boats and thin black nets that we had to skirt around, making our path a twisted gallop.  Gwnedo, a giddy French girl, was playful as she took pictures of our shadows and feet.

We arrived after a kilometer at the base of the dune and began climbing up, a difficult task in the sand.  The sun was lowering itself, beating into our eyes, emitting a dreamlike hue as we ascended.  I would often turn around while climbing to witness the enormous landscape below.  You know those photographs hanging in a guidance counselor's office, the ones with a picturesque beach and an encouraging sentiment like COURAGE written across the bottom?  The scene before me looked like this, only it was real; I could touch the sand and smell the faint salty odor of the cold ocean.  I was alive, aware of each breath, my heart racing but calm when Tom tapped me on the shoulder and ran up.  I followed, passing the scant few people also on the dune, all the way to the top.

In movies, people like to say after a near-death experience that their whole life flashed before their eyes.  I imagine that when one believes he is going to die, even if he is not a religious man, he becomes spiritual.  So it is accepted that when one will close his eyes for the final time, he will have a vision of all that has happened to him and perhaps understand finally where he is going.  But what about those who open their eyes for the first time?  Those who attempt something magical and are rewarded efficaciously with a living vision.  On the top of that dune, staring into the orange Spanish sun, my past life flashed before my eyes and the future emerged also.  The image of the future was blank, like a white Polaroid just after exiting the instant camera, but about to fill in with a clear snapshot of what was and what could be.  All of a sudden, standing next to me was my brother and my parents, my two best friends from growing up, the only girl I had ever loved, the professor who convinced me not to study business.  Everyone I knew and had ever thought about for more than a moment stared out at the Atlantic with me, and I smiled a vicious, greedy smile.  My life, I knew at that moment, was my own.  Outside forces that had constrained me in the past were second-tier influences now.  The sun slipped like a victor behind the forest in back of the dune, leaving the air crisp and ripe, the color of a peach.  Tom tapped me again on the shoulder and danced his way down the dune.