Ana opened the door and I could tell upon arrival that she was not expecting me for another 10 minutes or so. Her curlers were spun tightly into perfect rolls, covering every square inch of her scalp. Her apron was spattered with splotches of what appeared to be some sort of tomato based sauce and there were tiny beads of sweat accumulating on her brow. The kitchen must have been rather warm this morning. I am pretty sure that the top of Ana’s round little head barley reaches the middle of my bicep, her stomach is soft and her slippers squeak as she bustles around the house.
A couple weeks back I managed to successfully rip a handsomely sized gash in the interior thigh of a pair of jeans. After a week of contemplation, I finally came to the conclusion that it would be a wiser to decision to have someone else fix my pants, opposed to yours truly. So, last week I set off down the street in search for a shop that had cloth and sewing machines displayed in the windows. Coming up empty after several passes down a variety of streets I opted to change my direction of attack. Figuring that the best person to ask would be someone who looked like my own grandmother, I promptly approached the white haired lady coming towards me down the street. I showed her my pants and she immediately took my arm and lead me across the street, all the while saying, “ven conmigo hija mia, ven (come with me my daughter, come)!” We entered a tiny little store that was full from floor to ceiling with flower pots, door mats, rat poisoning and anything else your house might need. The woman exchanged words with the older man working behind the desk and it was no surprise to me that they were old friends. The man proceeded to scribble a number down on a piece of paper and then gave it to me telling me to call, Ana.
I thanked both people and left the store. Great, now I had to make a phone call to a lady that I did not know and hope that our conversation would amount to something. Speaking on the phone is always a challenge for me because both parties are without the help of body language. After explaining to Ana how I received her phone number, what I needed and where I was currently standing, she took the reigns of the conversation and directed me to her apartment. All I had to do was cross the street, take a right at the eye glasses shop, pass the small garden, and take the second set of steps up to apartment 2B, perfect.
“Hola mi nina, ven conmigo hija mia y dime lo que necesitas (hello my little girl, come with me my daughter and tell me what you need).” It appears that all older women speak the same language, referring to any young woman as their daughter. After showing me her sewing room, her cloth selection, what else she is capable of making or fixing, and telling me all about her sons and their love for sports, she told me to come back on Monday morning to pick up my pants. I thanked her greatly and left with a smile on my face. It is funny how things work. I cannot imagine anything like this being remotely possible or happening with such ease back home. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. I love you, Europe.
So, back up to the first paragraph, I arrived at Ana’s house this past Monday and was greeted with a cheery smile and a pair of stitched up jeans.
A couple weeks back I managed to successfully rip a handsomely sized gash in the interior thigh of a pair of jeans. After a week of contemplation, I finally came to the conclusion that it would be a wiser to decision to have someone else fix my pants, opposed to yours truly. So, last week I set off down the street in search for a shop that had cloth and sewing machines displayed in the windows. Coming up empty after several passes down a variety of streets I opted to change my direction of attack. Figuring that the best person to ask would be someone who looked like my own grandmother, I promptly approached the white haired lady coming towards me down the street. I showed her my pants and she immediately took my arm and lead me across the street, all the while saying, “ven conmigo hija mia, ven (come with me my daughter, come)!” We entered a tiny little store that was full from floor to ceiling with flower pots, door mats, rat poisoning and anything else your house might need. The woman exchanged words with the older man working behind the desk and it was no surprise to me that they were old friends. The man proceeded to scribble a number down on a piece of paper and then gave it to me telling me to call, Ana.
I thanked both people and left the store. Great, now I had to make a phone call to a lady that I did not know and hope that our conversation would amount to something. Speaking on the phone is always a challenge for me because both parties are without the help of body language. After explaining to Ana how I received her phone number, what I needed and where I was currently standing, she took the reigns of the conversation and directed me to her apartment. All I had to do was cross the street, take a right at the eye glasses shop, pass the small garden, and take the second set of steps up to apartment 2B, perfect.
“Hola mi nina, ven conmigo hija mia y dime lo que necesitas (hello my little girl, come with me my daughter and tell me what you need).” It appears that all older women speak the same language, referring to any young woman as their daughter. After showing me her sewing room, her cloth selection, what else she is capable of making or fixing, and telling me all about her sons and their love for sports, she told me to come back on Monday morning to pick up my pants. I thanked her greatly and left with a smile on my face. It is funny how things work. I cannot imagine anything like this being remotely possible or happening with such ease back home. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. I love you, Europe.
So, back up to the first paragraph, I arrived at Ana’s house this past Monday and was greeted with a cheery smile and a pair of stitched up jeans.
Skipping ahead a bit to this past weekend. We played in Bilbao on Saturday. The bus left at 11am and our game was set for 8pm. Sometimes I feel that everything I write about in my e-mails is fun and exciting, except my games. I played a solid 24 minutes after fouling out in the 4th quarter. We lost by 4pts to a team that I feel, we should have blown out of the water. I think we have good players on our team, but for various reasons we have not figured out how to play as a team for 40 minutes. Some days we look great and other days we look like the after math of a food fight, disgusting. In my opinion, Charly is a good coach and I feel for him that we cannot seem to figure it out. We have 4 more games left of this season and unless we win all four, we will not be making the playoffs. I am still hopeful, though, and perhaps we will have 4 great games, anything is possible, right?
On Sunday I accompanied Marta Cobian and one of her co-workers to a division one men’s basketball game in Madrid. The home team was called, Estudiantes and their opponents were Manresa. Even though the final score was a 30 point difference, I enjoyed the game. Estudiantes gym was much more fan friendly than the gym of Real Madrid, allowing fans to sit close to the court and enjoy a venue with natural lighting. After the game we headed for La Latina, a neighborhood in Madrid, famous for its bar appeal on Sunday afternoons. The temperature in Madrid on Sunday was around 70 degrees and so La Latina and all of it’s outdoor seating was saturated with people. There were many people parked right in the middle of plazas, sitting down anywhere and enjoying a beer and some sunshine. Drinking in the streets is illegal in many places around the globe, right? Well, it is illegal in Spain, too, but nobody seems to care. A group of police officers did eventually show up, and proceeded to walk amongst the crowds, calmly asking people to please put away their alcohol. Many times, however, police officers will, “hacer la vista gorda.”
Leslie’s Loose Ends:
“Hacer la vista gorda.” This is a spanish phrase that does not have a direct translation into english. It basically means, “look the other way.” Hacer means “to do”, la vista means “the view” and gorda means “fat.”
La Semana Santa is the week leading up to Easter. Processions are very common and there have already been several in Madrid. Processions in the South, however, are very different. Charly is from Malaga, which is in the south of Spain. He spent the last two days there and participated in the same procession that he has been a part of for the past 18 years. He helps carry the Virgin Mary, for 9 hours, through the streets of Malaga. I am curious to see what his shoulder looks like today at practice.
Adios hijos mios,
Leslie
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