Not Much

Day 126

Thursday

I clench and unclench my hands like a pulsing jelly fish. I curl over and unfurl flashing a face of pain. I point to my stomach in agony. Still the pharmacist looks back at my in a quizzical apathy through sunlight glinting glasses. “Te duele el estomago?” {Does your stomach hurt?} She yawns, after my enthralling charades of stomach cramps. “Yes, well no, my stomach doesn’t, but my friend's does. It’s called PMS cramps. I need Advil.” She looks even more confused by my answer. So there I am back mumbling ‘apretado’ (cramped) and pointing to my stomach, hoping to spark a synapse somewhere in her medical mind. None of my translations of ‘Advil’ into Spanish seem to register with her. So she decides to meander back into the vault of boxes and comes back sliding across the counter an anti acid medicine to me. I look at her incredulously. In all my drama did she not understand LOWER ABDOMEN? I have no medical degree but esophagus is as far from the uterus as Spain is from the USA. Fed up with her “I don’t give a shit at 10am” attitude I forcefully slid the antacid back and yell “UTERUS!” And to that she says, “Well how should I have known that? You said stomach, (which obviously means esophagus in Spain) so she goes back and brings out Ibiprofeno. Apparently because drugs are so cheap in Spain there’s an embarrassment tax they like to throw on the price of medicine, just for kicks. Slamming the door shut as I sprint out I chuckle, thinking, good thing she’s a pharmacist because if she were a doctor I can’t imagine what her bedside manner would be like considering her horrendous customer service at the counter.

Leise and I decide to chuck are grand plans for Nerja and instead lay low (well, she does, she naps in my bed and I paint my nails.). And it’s ok. Sometime company is a vacation in itself.




Eventually though she rallies and we catch the train for a touristy beach town, Benalmadena, where we happen upon a St. Patrick’s Day Festival held by the Irish Council of Benalmadena. Gawking at the Irish accents surrounding us we catch the end of an Irish Dance performance and the closing guitar performance. Green of all shades roams throughout the crowd. Clover green Cat-In-the-Hat—esque hats bop around, kitschy medals of having had a Guinness.


Before long the event wraps up and we cut out before we get pulled into a circle of lawn chairs and card games in the parking lot. Meandering down to the beach for dinner we grab a picture with the elusive Buddha statue and marvel at the farm animals that litter the local “Paloma Park.”

It’s funny looking back because if you were to ask me what we did all day, I’d say “Not much” and it’d be steeped in a satisfied grin. But so many other painful days I’ve tallied the happenings of a day and come to the sad conclusion that “Not much” happened.



Community has the power to create and sustain. Old friends, like the annual arrival of spring and warmth, restore the languid roots, stiff from a lonely winter, of the soul and encourage new blooms of new found friends.

Isn’t there a saying, “You are the light of my life” ….?

I’m looking at each one of you.