- A night full of sleep and an unresented morning
- Early morning messages that change the day’s agenda
- Together giggles to lighten a disturbing situation
- Handwashed clothes dripping into floor puddles
- Picnic lunches that are fun to pack and fun to eat
- A little boy casting shadows on an unceasing stream
- Giddy laughter and story-telling from children having fun
- A clock with a slow heartbeat
- Maps covering the wall
- The trickle of filtering water
- Creamy iced coffee
- Honesty that comes genuinely but not harshly
- The far away booms of fireworks
- Black mountain silhouettes
- A thousand nooks and crannies of foothills
- The delight of gift-giving
- Old city streets baked in the sun
- Cool tile floors
- Days that don’t end in the woes I had imagined
- Plan B when Plan A vanishes
Tag: culture
Country mice in Almería
Once in a while, my roommate and I like to get out of our immigrant town and feel like we’re in Europe (because it’s so easy to forget that we actually are!).
I looked up a local art museum and an intriguing café in Almería. So, pretending to be polished and cultured, we country mice set off to spend our Friday evening in the big, frightening city.
Okay, I’m exaggerating a little. It’s not like we never go to Almería and neither of us are frightened by the relatively small city. However, despite how sophisticated we felt that night, I rather think we still looked like country mice.
Our adventure began at the Doña Pakyta art museum. I highly recommend this little museum if you’re ever in Almería. Not only is it full of local art and snapshots of the city’s history, but it’s also located in an old residence. (And it’s free!)
Our next stop was Café Cyrano. I had only browsed through reviews, so we had really no idea what we were getting into. But we pretended that we did. And we were pleasantly surprised by a bustling and yet relaxed atmosphere. I managed to tune out the world and study Arabic while munching on a pita griega vegetal.
Last of all, while waiting for the last bus back to Immigrantville, we sat along the Rambla, the main boulevard, and enjoyed the life happening around us.
Birth certificates and cookie crumbs
It took 45 minutes to walk to town hall. Naima had told me she would meet me there. She was so slow in coming that I almost gave up. But it was a pleasant morning. There was shade and a nice breeze.
Suddenly she appeared, three children in tow. Only Curly Top, the littlest, was her own; the older two belonged to a neighbor. The younger neighbor girl gave me a grin so big that it took up the bottom half of her face.
Naima had tried to call me to change the meeting place, but I hadn’t answered, she said. We left it at that and walked together to a little building on the end of town.
“What do you need here?” I was the designated interpreter. But that could only happen if I understood what I was supposed to interpret. Naima tried to type the unknown Arabic word into my translator, but didn’t know how to spell it.
We entered the building, just large enough for a few offices that didn’t look strikingly official. A sign said to ask for a number, so I snagged a wandering employee. “A number please?” By the time he found a number and brought it to me, it was my turn.
But I still didn’t know what Naima needed.
I sat across from a gruff man at a desk. “What do you need?” His voice matched his expression.
“I don’t know.” I handed him my friend’s family book and he paged through it.
“What do you need?” he asked again.
“My friend needs two of something for her daughter, but I don’t know the word in Arabic, so I don’t know what to say in Spanish. She is trying to call her husband now.”
The gruff features twisted. “A birth certificate?”
“Is that what you have here?”
“Yes, and that’s all we have for her daughter.”
So while he printed the documents, he asked if I was evangelical and then launched into a one-sided discussion about Mormons. Mormons?
BANG! went the rubber stamp. BANG! BANG! BANG! He signed the documents with such scribbled flourish that it may have looked more natural had he been using a crayon on a coloring page.
“Where are you from?”
“The United States.”
“Trump. A lot of people angry that he doesn’t like immigrants.”
I sighed. Yes, but didn’t every country have its problems and weren’t there any problems in Spain?
Another one-sided discussion ensued that gave me a vague sensation of having made my point. He walked me to the door, still talking, and watched our little gang leave the odd little office.
Naima invited me up to her flat where I tried to translate a medical questionnaire that dizzied my brain. Naima sat on the arm of the couch and swatted away the little girls when they reached for the papers in my lap.
“Is it normal for your child to have high fevers?”
“No. She only has fevers when she’s teething. Have lunch with us.” Naima got up to start lunch preparations.
I couldn’t, but thank you. Another time, Lord willing.
“In my culture, when a guest comes to my house it’s shameful not to give them any food.” Naima packed up a container of olives she had brought back from her country.
I joined her in the kitchen area and watched her carefully wrap the container of olives in a plastic bag.
Curly Top was walking around the floor on her knees, sprinkling bread and cookie crumbs wherever she went, like a miniature Hansel and Gretel. Big Smile was claiming ownership of everything that wasn’t hers—my bag, Curly Top’s toys, a plate of cookies. I watched as she carefully stuck her foot into a pair of Curly Top’s pants, only about 3 years too small.
Naima took me to the elevator, leaving the flat door wide open and crumby children sprinkled along the hallway. I hit “0” and the elevator door closed.
When a day starts, I never know what to expect. But I kinda like that.
20 things I’m thankful for
- The golden ribbon of light along the curtain as the bedheaded sun peeks beneath the shade
- The perfume of dirt, black with rain
- Voices in harmony: “Come to my heart, Lord, come with anointing!”
- The blue blue blue of the Mediterranean from my bedroom window
- Talks that mean something
- Streets that are mine
- Second-hand clothing that smells good
- Fat babies in strollers, new and content
- Libraries of musty books
- Old men with hats and canes, lined up on park benches
- Rest beneath the late shadow of a palm
- Church bells
- Harmonious trails of busy ants
- A terrier grinning at me from the driver’s seat of a parked van
- Teenagers breakdancing in the park, conscious and proud of curious passersby
- Bright vests against black skin that whiz by on bikes
- The sweat and paint on a laborer just leaving work
- The echoing jingle of keys in an otherwise silent stairwell
- A real letter in a real mailbox
- Weary clouds in silver pajamas for bed
Night at the beach
It is evening as I descend from the bus stop to the beach. Red-faced, dripping families are ascending after their rigorous seaside adventure. Is it too much to hope for a quiet evening, alone with God and the waves?
I get closer until I can smell the salty water. Brightly colored towels hang from the balconies of a beachfront hotel.
Despite those who have left, there are people everywhere. I am not the only one who thought of enjoying the post-sunshine beach. Laughter punctuates the dull roar of voices.
I slip off my shoes and enter the chaos. The thick sand is rough against my bare feet. Each step half-buries my foot. I find the quietest spot available, spread out my towel, and shake my head at an African vendor who is trying to make a sale.
The waves froth over the rocks. A jet-ski roars past, spinning to dance in its own wake. A boat skims along, a child in an inner tube bouncing and shrieking behind. Another boat passes, this one with less drama.
The sun disappears and the air is almost cool. But the sand still sticks to my sweaty arm as I reach down to adjust my towel.
I soak in the moment. Just as it is.
The night thickens and so does the salty scent of the waves. And finally, I pick up my things and start the uphill plod. I can’t hear the waves anymore. A bustling restaurant is playing Caribbean music while customers sit in wicker chairs shaped like hard-boiled eggs.
That fades too. And it’s just me and a few other panting stragglers going uphill toward home.
A cathedral, cave houses, and amateur flamenco
The end of June, just before I left for the States, my roommate and I took a short trip to the nearby city, Guadix. In all of the July activities, I neglected to put up pictures… until now.
Overall, it was a good trip, although it did have its downsides… like being in town on a holiday weekend when businesses were closed, realizing that our trusty map was on my broken-down phone, getting hot and tired from wandering through the old city streets in search of our elusive airbnb. But those were the not-so-fun things that I didn’t bother to capture on my camera. So enjoy the happier things that I did…
Guadix is known for its splendid Baroque cathedral which was built from the 15th to mid-18th century.
Guadix is also known for its cave houses. Before you start picturing primitive etchings in rock walls and cavemen wielding stout clubs, take a look at these pictures.
Rather from being formed from natural caves, these cave houses or “troglodyte houses” are carved into the rocky landscape. The cave houses maintain a temperature of 18º C (64ºF.).We toured a church in the cave community. The church had marvelous nooks and crannies and tottering staircases to explore.
I noticed the window shoppers after I took the picture. And I definitely don’t have anything against window shopping. Especially since that’s how my roommate and I found a flyer for a charitable event hosted by a flamenco school of dance. We went.
Spontaneous in Níjar
The weekend finally came after a long, busy week.
“I’m sipping the last of my now-cold coffee and enjoying the fact that I have nowhere I need to go today,” I wrote in an email to my parents.
Five minutes later, a friend whatsapped me: “If it works and you want to…” She and her husband were planning to pick up a load of donated clothing for our second-hand shop. Could I help?
“Yes, I can. What time?”
“Ten minutes.”
Even though it was after ten o’clock, I was still in pajamas with a bedhead. But I dashed around the house and out the door just in time, bedhead (calmed but not conquered), coffee breath, and all. Had I remembered to put on deodorant?
As we were loading the last of the clothes along the winding streets of downtown Almería, my friend’s husband said, “We would like to take you to Níjar.”
Of course, this statement wasn’t as unprecedented as I make it sound. They knew I had been wanting to browse through handmade pottery and they were willing to drive me to a quaint, mountain town to do my browsing.
There I stood with my bedhead and bad breath. But I wasted only a moment in indecision before heartily agreeing to the spontaneous plan.
So we went. And it was lovely. The spontaneity made it delightful. The handcrafted merchandise made it breathtaking.
Small town librarying
After a couple of months of life in Spain, I gathered up courage to visit the local library. Through the park that hosts elderly men in the morning and rebellious teenagers in the afternoon. Down a long hallway lined with local photography. Until I stood in a room full of books.
Unruffled by my presence, the librarian looked at me over a piece of cardboard she was painting. A prop for a children’s program? “Can I help you?” she asked.
There would be no subtle spying out of the library grounds. I was an outsider and expected to state the purpose for my unheralded intrusion. “Uh, I live here now and-and I would like to read m-more books in Spanish.”
“You need proof of residency from city hall and a copy of your residency card.”
I retrieved the documents and filled out the paperwork. Then I selected a book.
The librarian scrawled the due date on a slip of paper inside the front cover of my selection. I admit that even in that small town, one-room library, I was startled by the lack of technology.
The book I had chosen was boring, so I returned it the next week.
“Did you finish it?” the unruffleable librarian asked without glancing up from her new craft project.
Why this sudden sense of guilt? “No.” I cleared my throat.
“Okay. Just leave it there on the desk.” And she continued unruffledly crafting.
A week later I slipped in again, determined to select a more interesting book. This time, the unruffled librarian was in the middle of a sewing class. She barely looked up while I selected Las Memorias de Sherlock Holmes.
She pulled out my file without confirming my name, made a phone call to the main branch—the internet was down, she said—and then picked up a pencil.
I’m sure my eyes widened when she penciled the due date in the corner inside the front cover.
Sherlock Holmes was a better choice, but I still didn’t finish it by the due date. So I attempted my first renewal.
The librarian’s hands were covered in black paint as she was undertaking yet another craft project. “Did you finish it?”
“No. I would like to renew it.”
“No problem. Just bring it back when you finish.”
Assuming she was referring to the due date, I pointed out that the date inside the front cover said tomorrow.
“No, not when it is due. When you finish,” she clarified. She held up a black hand while the other still clutched a dripping paintbrush. “My hands are covered in paint right now. When you finish, bring the book back and I will erase your fine.”
This week, I returned the overdue book. There was a painting project spread across the entire library floor. The librarian’s pre-teen volunteers cleared a skinny path for me between the massive sheets of damp paper. The unruffled librarian continued hot-gluing safety pins to name tags as I selected another book and brought it to her.
Inside the cover of the old book, she jotted down the number of the new book, handed the new book to me, and returned to her gluing. Apparently, she didn’t feel like traversing the skinny path to her desk.
But this time, she was not the only one unruffled. I had grown accustomed to small town library dynamics and was quite unruffled myself.
Welcome to Almería
A Good Friday stroll
The Good Friday streets were quieter than normal. I plodded along, bracing myself against the wind.
When I was young—not more than ten—I overheard a conversation between my mom and her friend. The friend claimed that it always rained on Good Friday, even if it was just a little. Mom was politely dubious, but the statement impressed itself upon my impressionable mind. Did it really? Was God reminding us of the death of Jesus through a sky full of tears?
However, since this friend had revealed the fact after Good Friday, I had to wait an entire year to see if the statement were true. By then, I had forgotten about it. And I forgot the next year and the next until more than twenty years later, I still had never noted whether or not the rain dutifully came on Good Friday. Would it come to every part of the world if it indeed came at all? Would it come to Spain?
To be my age and wondering these things made me question my sanity. Why would I believe something that had neither Biblical nor meteorological basis?
I continued to walk, lost in rambling thoughts. My morning plans had been changed at the last minute, making me wish I had stayed in bed longer. But since I was up, I thought I might as well go for a stroll. My relaxed pace allowed a stooped, old man to zip around me. As he passed, I wondered what his story was.
Today the world was worth noticing: young voices pouring out of open cafés, elderly men congregating on park benches, a boy with a soccer ball. What did Easter mean to these people?
I wandered into my favorite café. “Coffee with milk?” The server asked before I had selected my chair.
“Thank you.” I smiled and pulled out my Kindle. I read, inhaling a fair amount of secondhand smoke and sipping my coffee from the sweet rim of my mug—I hadn’t used sugar and tried not to think too hard why the rim tasted sweet.
“One euro, guapa.” The server made change for my ten euro bill.
“Have a good Easter.” I smiled at her.
But would she? In Spain, the climax of Holy Week is the passion of Christ. That part of the holiday is celebrated and reenacted until resurrection Sunday is almost lost. Like their Jesus, did these people also keep their faith eternally nailed to the cross? Did they believe in victorious faith? Victorious life?
A dog trotted along a crosswalk, confident he owned the street. His owner followed a few paces behind.
The North African store was one of the only stores open on Good Friday. It bustled with limp produce, loud Arabic, and bodies that were busy making room for themselves in the small shop.
I dropped a euro on the floor as I paid for a few too-ripe tomatoes. The clerk gently smiled at my clumsiness. And then he switched from Spanish to Arabic to bid me farewell.
I greeted the mother of a lesser-known acquaintance and we walked home together in the powerful wind.
“I have laundry on our roof,” I told her as a gale threatened to carry us off like Mary Poppinses.
She had also hung her morning laundry on the roof, so at her street corner we said hasty goodbyes and rushed to rescue our scattered clothing.
It was afternoon when I opened my laptop to write an email. Outside my bedroom window, the clouds lowered over the mountains while the sky and the sea simultaneously turned gray. Then from somewhere came enough drops of rain to make me wonder, against all logic, if Mom’s friend had been right after all.
Photo by Anant Jain on Unsplash
My Thoughts From Afar | 