TABLE
OF CONTENTS
|
An Olive Offer
Changed my Life
Amy Dewitt

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 at
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 giddy as the 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 in
Cadiz 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 that are 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.
|