Bromfield 10th-grader Maxwell Weiss had been settled into his eclipse viewing spot in the foothills of Parque de la Candamia in Léon, Spain, for a couple of hours. The moon had begun its traverse. People were still filling in along the walking trail that the Weiss family of Warren Avenue had scouted out the night before—a vista with no trees, mountains, or buildings to obstruct the astronomical event that was happening low in the sky on Aug. 11. As totality–the point at which the moon obscures the sun–approached, two women sat down next to the Weisses. Max glanced over, and then did a double take: “Profe?”
“Max?”
Of all the eclipse joints in all the towns in all the world, it was Max’s Bromfield Spanish teacher, Ursula Millard, who’d sat down beside him.
Both the Weiss family and Millard and her friend had chosen to watch from Léon because that city was forecast to enjoy the longest period of totality in the country. What they had not planned on was running into each other 3,000 miles from home.
The chance meeting almost didn’t happen. The Weisses chose to enter the park at the far entrance rather than the easier access point closer to the town in hope of avoiding the thickest crowds. They’d picked up some bamboo mats to sit on and some umbrellas to protect them from the searing pre-eclipse sunshine. Max had brought a special filter for his camera and was concentrating on photography. A European space agency and a local college were hosting a watch event in the same place, so Max felt confident they had chosen wisely.
Meanwhile, Millard and her friend, who lives outside of Barcelona, had taken a bus into town and visited the tourist office for advice. They’d first staked out a position higher up in the shade of a ruin. But, Millard said, “I just kept telling myself there had to be a better place.” Her friend guarded their spot while Millard paced around, looked down the mountain, and spied the same area where the Weisses were. The women hiked down and dropped into place.
Once Weiss and Millard exchanged greetings— “in Spanish, of course”—Weiss said, all eyes were on the phenomenon in the sky. On any given day on Earth, there’s a 0.22 percent chance that a total eclipse is happening somewhere. In any given location, it happens about once every 375 years. But that’s just an average, according to the Old Farmers Almanac. It could happen twice in a few decades or once in 1,000 years. New England has had five in the past 100 years; the last time Spain saw la luna blot out el sol was 1905. Weiss is now a veteran of three total eclipses; Millard’s husband comes from a family of eclipse chasers, but this was her second, and a first for her friend.
The character of the light changed. The sky went dim. Other stars came forth. The assembled watchers sighed, or cheered, or clapped. And then the moon began to slip away. “It was breathtaking,” Millard said. “Just such an amazing experience.”
Teacher and student said their goodbyes. Weiss mentioned that he’d be in Millard’s class again this year, but Millard wanted to hold onto summer. “Don’t talk about that, it’s too early,” she teased him. “Enjoy this moment.” Millard and her friend walked away. They knew the sun was going to set soon after the big show. Then she turned around. Weiss saw her running back toward him. “Nobody’s going to believe this,” Millard said. “We have to take a picture.”
Jill Maxwell is Max’s aunt and an occasional contributor to the Harvard Press.