Day 58
Tuesday
In previous posts I’ve noted a lack of courteous kindness from Spaniards. I’ve realized why I’ve never seen it before, at least until today that is. I was never deserving of it. As a regular extranjera, I’m just bumbling along, no sympathy, no kindness needed. But the minute I’m the meek extranjera navigating crowds of people, narrow sidewalks and wobbly cobblestone streets the rare compassionate Spaniard rises to the occasion and fate smiles upon me. Heading out for a jaunt in the late morning the delivery men were still out on their rounds, dropping off produce to restaurants, bread to cafes and milk to heladerias. As I rounded the corner a kindly delivery man with his cart just recently emptied of its contents beckoned to me to hop on, promising me that he’ll carry me where ever I needed to go. That makes me blush and chuckle; I’m not used to having anyone notice me on the street.
Still all smiley by the time I reach the market I decide it’s worth it to pay a little bit extra and go to the more expensive vendor because she’s an old and gloriously wrinkled dame who greets me as “mi Reina” (my queen) and asks me what I’d like, telling me stories about all the vegetables around her and what a good decision it is to buy a kilo of plums before I’m really even sure I like plums. Giving me my change she wishes me a beautiful day and to get better. And I hobble off out of the chaos, happy to have been a grandchild again.
Eventually though the happiness wears off and your arms get really sore from crutches and the blisters on your hands start to scream. And soon I turn into a begrudging bitch who curses the mobility of others under her breath. That’s right old woman with a cane, pass me going up hill, that’s fine cyclist, I wasn’t interested in crossing the street in one piece, no worries children, please run through my legs and get tangled in my crutches, please please don’t hold that door open for me, I’ll just slam my body into it to open it. And then, there I stand on one foot in my sour puss mood about to fall into the pool to do my beloved aqua jogging, I look down to ask the man if he doesn’t mind splitting the lane with me and my green buoyed self and he smiles and enthusiastically says, “Venga! Venga! Hombre, claro!” (Come on in, come on in! Dude, of course!) And he waves the nub of his arm at me to hop in before he starts off again on another lap. And I’m slammed with a reality check. A one armed man is swimming laps around me, happily, and I’ve got an attitude about some crutches wearing me out. Lacking grace, but full of humility I tumbled into the pool and began a hodgepodge jog, embarrassed to my toes for being so ungrateful for the mobility I still had. So, just as I did on Bike and Build when I promised myself I’d never complain again about head winds because at least I still had a body full of life to face the winds, I promised to never complain about my crutch-status. And I’ll tell you what, a few endorphins, long awaited, and made that promise pretty easy to keep the rest of the day.
Later that night, being at home more often than not lately, I had the chance to witness a daily ritual more intensely than ever before. From my terrace I have the great luck to see the tallest tower of the Cathedral. It’s a majestic presence rising above the horizon of stucco roofs and cable dishes. Its beauty is undeniable during the day, but at night its beauty is jaw dropping. It’s tawny bricks are alit with an antique orange glow that makes it seem as if a fire were alit inside, shimmering off the dusty bricks in an arrogant display of splendor. Being so close I not only see the Cathedral, but I also hear it. Every hour, on the hour. And every half hour on the half hour. But at 6pm, for some reason unbeknownst to me, it chimes all of its bells, not just its usual solitary bell, every 15 minutes. So at 6, 6:15, 6:30 and 7pm, the city is held captive by a 4 minute concert of chiming. Stepping out onto my terrace at 6:30, curious as to whether time had begun to fly and it was really 9pm, because of the third chime, I stared out over the houses to the Cathedral and stared in horror at the chiming of the bells. I felt as if I was staring at a crucified body shaking in spasms of death. The bells rolled over themselves, again and again, flipping upside down, like eyes rolling back into the head of the Cathedral, sounding an eerie chorus of bells, rising and falling. Dark purple storm clouds nestled in close to see what was a matter. Ominously framed by dark masses, the tall orange tower with bells rolling back and back and back was a terrifying scene, only to occur again at 6:45 and again at 7pm. By then I could look no more. It was the strangest experience to stand and watch the bells roar inside the darkly lit tower, I felt like an auspicious stranger, spying on a secret event, not able to look away, but not wanting to be caught looking any longer. The grotesque beauty of it all held me in awe.
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