Beyond smoke and mirrors of circumstance, decoration of personal narrative, and aspects hidden in shadow there is nothing extraordinary. I said so myself in the post that I call #1. Written and declared – affirming that it is indeed right. (Right for now at any rate.)
So what if I back it up a bit to where extraordinary resides? What if I embrace the circumstance,narrative, and shadows. Celebrating what I do have. My story.
I can start there.
I can start here – In the story I am living. Narrative not relegated to the wrapping of history. It is the color of life as it happens.
A little over a year has passed since we came to this Place of Magic Giving. From the first moment we arrived on that cold December morning, eager to start our day seeking out the next place we would call home, we knew that we had stumbled into no ordinary place. Early for our first appointment of the day, we tucked into the bar at the ayuntamiento (city hall) plaza to have a cup of coffee and pass the time. Much in the same way you can get to know about the boroughs and hamlets of England by stopping into the local pub, the same holds true for the bar/cafe in Spain. At right around a euro for a cup of coffee, a glass of beer or a shot of your prefered spirit -the stories and conversation are free flowing even in these harsh economic times. It was then, as we walked into the bar, that we entered a different reality. Cigarette smoke hit us square in the face. Notice of the indoor smoking ban which took effect 2 years ago dutifully posted on the wall behind the cash register. Ashtray with a burning butt perched, smoldering close by as the woman working behind the bar cashed out a patron. Not the most endearing welcome for non-smokers, but it let us know immediately – this place sets its own code. Also of note was that despite the early hour, the glasses that sat in front of each customer contained a potent libation called a Sol y Sombra. Equal parts brandy or cognac and anise dulce – Sun and Shade. Recipes for this drink that I can find in English say to shake together and serve over ice, but these were artfully poured so that the anise remains on the bottom with the brandy floating on top. Straight, no ice. Breakfast of champions, Spanish campo style.
In the year since that day it never ceases to give me pause – this ritual which begins each day with the rising of the sun. Roosters crow, the viejas gather to meet the pescadero to buy the day’s fish, farmers lead old mules up the terraces, and the regulars take their seats at the bar in the plaza for some Sol y Sombra. I wonder about their stories and the lives that bring them to return faithfully each day. Though many of them are still very much a curiosity to me (and certainly I am equally as curious to them with my dreadlocks and terrible Spanish) some of them have also become familiar faces around the village, away from their perches. We’ve danced at celebrations alongside them, we’ve drank with them -albeit at a much more civilized hour. We’ve learned pieces of their stories.
This week we were sad to learn that one of the glasses at the bar remains full and a seat empty. The drunk baker, his body ravished by his habit, has died. He always had a big toothless smile when passing in the street and would often stop to ramble on incoherently about something which even a native speaker would be challenged to understand. On Sundays, when the law mandates that many businesses are closed, you could still get a freshly baked loaf from him. Available for pick-up at the bar in the plaza, delivered as he took his place alongside his compadres for what I suspect was not the first drink of his day. I honestly can’t tell you much else about him. I only even learned his name when I heard of his passing. Until that point he was simply the drunk baker, brother of the fat singing baker. It feels a bit odd to feel loss for the death of someone I barely knew, yet this strange little man will be missed. He is now a part of my story.
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