This was what our year in Spain meant to me. Time with my daughters, time with my husband. Time off the clock. We were hesitating to call our year abroad a sabbatical, as my husband would still be working some, and I intended to commit to my writing, but the idea of sabbath time, or at least more flexible time, sounded appealing.
The man at the folding table was there each morning in front of the bar as I walked past on my way to Spanish class. At first I paid him little attention, but as he was faithfully there each day, I eventually noticed that he was selling lottery tickets. The window advertised, “Jugamos con el numero 34802.”