Day 42
Shoes, chandeliers, cds, tapes, books, shower heads, money, tea pots, cups, vases, telephones, cell phones, jewelry, nails, screws, hammers, bolts, nuts, crow bar, paintings, pictures, blankets, curtains, high heels, moon shoes, dresses, t-shirts, hats, sunglasses, batteries. All scattered on blankets like a photo shoot for the “I SPY” book. I’m back, I couldn’t resist. It’s Sunday afternoon at the market by the futbol stadium. Despite my roommate’s adamant assertion that it is a dirty market I rather love it. I don’t presume myself to be dirty nor dirty in taste, but I love the abrupt pace and the outspoken nature. I also am drawn by the desperate nature of the market. Everyone’s livelihood is on the line. They must sell their goods. If not…..well…..
It’s my chance to see those people living in Spain who actually vie for my attention, who don’t have a stick up their ass because I don’t speak their language perfectly or I’m not the most beautiful thing to grace this Earth. At the market there is only one language, money. And the vendors aren’t really speaking to me, they’re hollering at my pocket, inviting my wallet to come out and open up. But I don’t mind, I don’t bring any money for that reason. I’ve got a weak spot for impulse buys. And an ever sorer spot for buyer’s regret. :)
It’s not just the vendors’ interaction with me that I get a rise out of but witnessing the interaction between the vendors. Like old neighbors talking over the fence, they yell, ‘give me 5 euro to make change” or “buy me a water” or ‘watch my daughter, I’ll be back soon!” or “how much you sell today?” market talk is loud and quick. It’s curt and to the point. Attention spans run short; words must fly across the stream of people before the recipient’s attention is lost. I’m sure the yelling is endearing, even if it does sound harsh and corrosive to my sensitive American ears. I don’t think I’d like to have a stand and spend all my day selling odds and ends, but I do think I would really like to be part of that world for a short while. I wonder, where did they find these things? Professional dumpster diving? A sweet deal from a supplier? Stock piling Christmas gifts through the years? How….???
By about 2pm the market begins to wind down and people start to pack their unsold goods into bags and boxes, shoving them into the trunks and aisles of mini-vans to be carried home and hopefully sold another day at another market. So I wander away, laughing at the couple selling potions of tea infusions to cure ‘pain of the bones’, ‘obesity,’ ‘broken heart’, and ‘stomach aches.’ I’m pretty sure it’s all chamomile tea, to make the buyer just calm down and breathe. Then all their troubles dissipate.
I head for a loop on the beach while the sun is still high overhead; trying to soak up all the warmth I can before heading back to my igloo apartment. The frigid winds that roam the high altitudes at the tops of buildings seems to infiltrate every crack in my doors and windows, seeking me out, wondering why I’ve left my wandering for another day. But today I’m at the beach. Enjoying the sunshine and the silence. Sundays in Spain are magical. While Spain claims to be predominantly catholic, it really has booted the institution for the most part keeping only 2 crucial parts of the faith. They keep the holidays holy (i.e. A week long Easter celebration called Semana Santa) and they regard Sunday as a day of rest. And by rest I mean cessation of all activity. I mean, Sunday is the day of great and widespread sluggardness. While it drives me mad some days that EVERY STORE iN SPAIN IS CLOSED, every store, seriously EVERY STORE, I love the tranquility that is put out to air instead of noisy people. I can actually hear the rolling waves hitting the beach; I’m not bothered by the rush of cars. I can hear the squawk of the parrots in the palm trees; loud music from the bars doesn’t drown them out. And I can hear myself think, I’m not distracted by noisy tourists on the beach. It’s wonderful.
This evening I found myself with time to watch the sunset from atop the Alcazaba (the Muslim fortress behind our apartment). And as I watched the sun lean back over the mountains I thought, I’ve always wanted the time of day to just watch the sunset. And now I have it. What a blessing. And so I lingered a bit longer, as if I expected an encore. But really I was just trying to ingrain the moment in my memory so if I ever thought to complain about my free time, I could remember the gift in it. It was a glorious sunset. The perfect dénouement to an emotionally vexing couple of days. Deep breathing seems to come more natural in the dark. And so walking down the path from the top of the Alcazaba deep breaths carried me step by step all the way back to my apartment where I tried to make peace with the clock, the world, the people, and my purpose. And beg the cold draft to leave me be.
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