Some people are great spontaneous storytellers. They can literally captivate an audience by regaling it with the mundane details of their days. I used to the think that these folks had more interesting lives than yours truly, but that's not necessarily so. They just have a way of relating the minutiae that can really move a listener. I've always wanted to have that ability, but alas, when I am asked over and over again to "tell some great stories," of my travels it always puts me on the spot. What stories? Nothing really happened to me. I went a bunch of places, read some books, looked up at a great many tall buildings and ate way too much delicious food. What I can't produce on the spot however, comes back to me a little bit at a time with the memory of each meal or morsel. My stories are a subtext of all the great food and tall buildings I looked up at. They lace together the larger memories into one cohesive experience to tell people about. So while I may not be much around the water cooler or campfire, it turns out I do have some stories to tell. Here's one…
Spain is a glutton's paradise. Eating and drinking is woven so tightly into the social fabric, it's candyland to an outsider with an adventurous palate. Except, instead of gumdrops and lollypops you have ham and vermouth. Salted pig parts and barrel aged libations are essentially dripping from the walls and falling from the sky. The culture encourages sampling and little here and a little there, all before you actually sit down for a meal. After nearly a month in Spain I had made this a job, fully tricked out with a mission statement and itinerary for each day.
On this particular day in Grananda, I had gotten up disgustingly early for the second morning in a row to see La Alhambra, the previous being a failure because I arrived too late to get one of the limited tickets sold each day. After spending more than half the day touring this more than magnificent historical sight I headed back into the old city to revisit two great tapas bars I had discovered the day before. The first was an old school operation, complete with aged, unkempt men in white shirts and black vests. I watched one guy loose his marbles because the beer keg blew in the middle of service and he just couldn't deal with the stress. This was right before he raised his hand in a feigned smacking motion to the back of a younger, cockier waiter who was carrying way too many plates, and made a classic, "why I ought!" face. It was a priceless moment that only I witnessed. In Granada you get a complimentary tapa with each drink that you order which is fabulous, but can fill you up quick. I had come for the sesos - fried brains - and was not to be deterred. You're cringing, I can tell. Honestly though, brains have a really creamy texture, sort of like oysters. I'm convinced that an unsuspecting diner could scarf down crisply fried gray matter happily until told what it actually is.
Anyway, I digress. I finished up and moved on to the other bar I had enjoyed the day before. It was a little more modern and a little less smoky. The day was young and I still had free tapas on the brain (get it?). While the day before this particular dive had been empty, it was hopping on this visit. The bartender, a cheerful and quirky young gal remembered me from the day before. She came to get my order as I squeezed between groups of people just beginning their afternoon siesta. It's a little awkward drinking by oneself in a crowded bar, but I seemed to have it down by this point. It was a little too loud and bustling to concentrate on a book, but I always had my smartphone's internet connection to keep me company if conversation failed. For a moment, though I watched the bartender who had made a nice impression on me the day before just by being friendly. She was working this crowd like a pro, with a deft yet graceful hand. Perky, cute and just a little strange, she had a pet name for each regular customer and you never had to tell her what you were drinking more than once. Oddly, she also looked exactly like someone I worked with way back when. Also a bartender, these two gals looked similar and acted the same. Same skills and talents. It was like I was watching the same former colleague, once removed, miles and years away from the last time we worked together, in a different language. Strange. It got me thinking maybe people exist in duplicate or triplicate even, all over the world. Different bodies, but here to serve the same purpose, play the same role. It's some weird, new-agey shit, I know, but interesting to think about. A man sitting next to me at the bar kept tapping me on the arm and pointing at her, the pixieish bartender, with a slightly drunk smile, as if to say, "ain't she great?" I nodded and smiled as I always do when people babble to me in a foreign language. My own cosmic pontifications aside, I was not about to get into an esoteric conversation with this guy on the subject. I was reading about post season baseball with my phone, and in an effort to relate, he pulled out his cell and showed me a picture of himself with a woman - very pretty - who could have been a wife or a daughter. I hope the latter, because she looked much younger than him. He kept at it in Spanish and I kept nodding, which probably encouraged him to open up even more. At one point, he pointed at the picture and put his hand over his heart. Now this I understood as the international sign for, "my love." Still unsure if the special lady in the picture was spouse or child, I figured it didn't matter because this show of affection would be endearing for either. This guy is ok! Next he pointed to our friend, the bartender and indicated that she too, belonged to his heart. I can see that. She was really that sort of service professional. Even I was beginning to care about her a little. I mean, she remembered my name and brought me free food. He continued chatting me up and I continued nodding. Then I noticed that he was crying. Not sobbing, but tears were welling up as he spoke. Instead of being awkward, it was surreal. I was having trouble believing that this was all really taking place in this universe. I don't know why, but it made me want to think of all the things and the people that are important to me. Not in a way that made me gloomy, but rather appreciating what I have and the ability to choose my own direction. I can't speculate on what he was so emotional about, but considering he was talking about love while drinking and eating great food there is equal chance that they were tears of joy, of pain or just plain allergies. I'll never forget this moment. I came for the food and it was wonderful but I left thinking about how lucky I am. So you see I do have some stories to tell. They create an important context in which I can enjoy and remember epic dining experiences. Eventually the soul sitting next to me at the bar perked up and the tears stopped. Our spritely, playful bar maiden, who was calling me "chipi" or "chiki" or whatever in a high pitched whine bid me fond farewell and implored me to call my mother...
