TABLE
OF CONTENTS
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An
Olive Offer Changed my Life
Preface
There was a card
table set up outside, like the kids’ table at a holiday meal, but
instead it
held five vats of olives, different spices and different juices, all
soaking
under the unusually warm Andalucian sun. A
toothless man smacked his gums as this vat and that,
making it clear I
had no choice but to trust that his favorites would also be my own. I walked off swinging a soggy bag of olives
as the giddy child with a seasick goldfish in a tight plastic bag after
a visit
to the pet store. Excitement makes me
destinationless, sucking on olive pits and smiling from ear to ear.
An Olive Offer…
Diego
also loves
olives. I stumbled into his shop after
my purchase, completed complimentary greetings – Hola,
¿que tal? – and tipped the bag his direction.
After the sticky, olive-juice handshake with
drips down to our elbows, I was hooked. His
persona was contagious and magnetic; I returned every
day at dos y media (2:30) for lunch, music,
dancing, good company, new friends, and new discoveries.
All of which constituted siesta. The
Spanish culture runs on its own
clock. Siesta is an integral part of
daily life, but is often misinterpreted by outside cultures as an
afternoon nap
– used synonymously with catnap, snooze, sleep, and forty winks. Diego was my introduction to the life of the
Spanish siesta. I returned that first
day, as he asked me to do, at 2:30 un
punto (on the dot) and was surprised to see a handful of other
people
waiting for the same grand man: Inese from Latvia,
Jim from Germany,
and Irish
Murphy (the only three that spoke limited English), Frenchman Andres,
Spanish
Gabriel and Luis, and Norbert from Honduras.
Each one had met Diego in a similar fashion
to my chance encounter, save the olives, and now all live in Diego’s
one room
flat sharing rent and forfeited personal space.
Changed My Life
Diego did not
speak English. Jim and Murphy did not
speak Spanish. I do not speak French,
Latvian, and only very little Spanish. Andres
– Spanish and French, and the others only Spanish.
And yet we could all communicate. Diego’s
door is always open, and he uses it
as a gate through many cultural barriers: We were sitting outside a
café
picking through a pile of fried seafood. Throughout
the meal several homeless people and street
peddlers routinely
came up to us with pleading eyes and outstretched hands.
Without question, he broke into conversation
with each as if old school-time friends, and offered them some food. Many he knew by name because they were people
in his eyes, people worth a real conversation, handshake, or
cheek-to-cheek
greeting.
“We
are all born naked; we are all equal; we are all human.”
Diego explained to me that his
great-grandfather was a revolutionary anarchist, martyred for his
spoken words
(the above phrase included) and published works on the government’s
role. He knew very little English, but
knew enough
to voice his hatred for President Bush – a common thread I have found
throughout all of the countries I have visited. It
was refreshing, however, to hear such a realistic
perspective on our
government and its policies. He
acknowledged that the responsibility of all American actions with which
he
didn’t agree did not come down solely to one man; he knew that only a
small
percentage of Americans were supportive of such actions (specifically
the
involvement in the Middle East), and agreed on our false claim of
democracy: “I
will go to the United States when it becomes a democratic society.” To which he chuckled and continued, “I will
never see the United
States.”
As the Mystery Guest
to a Spanish Siesta.
I spent my time in Spain
in a constant state of siesta. It is
about slowing down, seeing people, enjoying life, and breathing. Some say Andalucians are lazy; I say they see
no need in passing up opportunities for beautiful encounters by rushing
through
life. Mary Crain points out factors that
will continue to draw people to the Andalucian province of southern Spain
in her article. Will the onslaught of
incomers (like myself, but on so many levels un-like
myself) discussed in “The Remaking of an Andalusian
Pilgrimage Tradition: Debates Regarding Visual (Re)presentation and the
Meanings of “Locality” in a Global Era” destroy this pace of
Andalucians? A streetside jig or bar
hopping solely for a tapas lunch - small Spanish snacks often served as an
appetizer along with alcoholic drinks
- and a ¡Buenas Tarde! to old friends. Watching the sunset on the beach at the base
of Castillo de San
Sebastian or playing futbol in
the plaza with neighborhood
kids. It can not. I
met this man through an extra large, spicy
green olive and a pit-spitting contest. Life
is a bag of olives, messy hands, and bad breath with good company that
follows
the trajectory of a projectile pit landing in victory in the targeted
flower
pot. To find a life that makes me forget
the rate of travel my feet once traveled, but to still remember the
people that
keep me returning home is perfect happiness. Thank
you, Diego. Thank you, Cadiz. Thank
you for my world of siesta.
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