Sanibel Scribbles (33 page)

Soon, the anchovies were eaten, and Rosario brought out a pan with various cold sausages, pâtés, and small pieces of goat’s milk and other cheeses. No one spoke a single word of English, and they all took turns speaking with their new arrival. After each of their questions, Vicki offered them little more than yes and no answers, but they were delighted and she felt like a grown-up bundle of joy, something a stork had dropped off.

Rosario’s colorful meal continued as long as it would have taken for a family of five to go through the drive-through of a fast-food restaurant, eat, then go through and eat ten more times. Who had time for this? How did this family find the time to sit and savor food for hours?

Vicki could taste garlic, onion and tomatoes in the yellow rice topped with green peas and strips of red pepper. Señor Lorenzo took on the responsibility of educating Vicki on his wife’s
comida
, slowly explaining that
rice is a popular ingredient in Spanish cooking and that any firm, white fish can be used with this dish. He patted his wife’s plump behind as she filled his plate, and everyone laughed. Then he picked up a mussel and a clam, and bragged that his wife had spent much of her day cleaning the ingredients for this dinner.

“Did the snails get a bath or shower?” she attempted to ask in Spanish. There was no reply. “Did the creatures enjoy their bath?”

The head of the table shouted something at his wife, and Rosario ran into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of shells, as if to show Vicki where the seafood originally came from.

“Mas, mas,”
Señor Lorenzo urged as he broke off more white bread and dipped it in his rice.
Mas
meant more, so Vicki got a second helping and a third after that. After the ever-so-lively meal, Rosario brought out a bowl full of pears and apples, and they all continued to feast, proving the end was indeed as significant as the beginning.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

AS THE SUN STARTED TO
rise over the city of Madrid, so did the aroma of baking bread from the shops below. Both reached the cast-iron balcony of the apartment four floors up. The noise of the waking metropolitan city worked like an alarm clock each morning, drawing Vicki to the balcony. But Rosario scolded her for standing out there with bare feet, so this morning she put on a pair of socks and shoes, and headed down the long hallway to the kitchen for their morning ritual of cookies and milk.

As she headed toward the noise of Rosario clanging pots and pans, there was no evidence that her Spanish sister, Isabella, had been sleeping on the floor. Rosario always picked up her pillows and blankets as soon as her daughter rose each morning, and there seemed to be no resentment toward Vicki for having stolen her closet of a bedroom. Isabella was in her late twenties and still living at home, now sleeping on the floor, and she held a full-time job as manager of a boutique in the Salamanca District, known throughout Spain as the quintessential upper-bourgeois neighborhood. She worked during the day and enjoyed a social life in the city streets below at night. Some nights Vicki heard her sneak in at around three o’clock, but it never upset her parents. And by the time she awoke, Isabella had left for the day.

How did this woman spend her nights on the streets of Madrid? Was it anything like the nights on Tarpon Key? Vicki missed staying out late, but interpreting a foreign language took much energy, and she collapsed
into bed each night. This didn’t mean she fell asleep right away. Often she lay on her back, staring for hours at the high ceiling above her, wishing it were the Sistine Chapel so it would at least be interesting to stare at. But it was dull, painted in brown, and only her imagination turned it into something more. At times she saw ships coming and going, or tulips opening in intense colors, or a clean, white paper tablecloth, or a pure white canvas—she didn’t know which. Her nights of staring up at the ceiling were long and agonizing, and she missed her old nights on the island, exciting and brilliant.

As she took her seat in the kitchen, Vicki felt tempted to ask many things. Why
does Rosario’s husband, Lorenzo, have such a gigantic stomach? Why does everyone leave the house but Rosario? She cooks and cleans all day. Why is that dead animal hanging on a rope upside down in the kitchen with its head cut off, and blood dripping from its neck into a pan?

Suddenly, as if she had finished listening to a motivational tape, or watching a year’s worth of Oprah, she felt ambition joining forces with desire deep within herself and knew she had to turn those pictures on her ceiling into words that could be used in the kitchen with Rosario, in the city streets below, and in the classroom. She closed her eyes and made the decision to advance her language quickly. Yes, now it was time to learn. She would have to act quickly since she only had one semester, so she started by making it her goal to learn from Rosario in the kitchen each morning.

The
señora
poured warm milk into a mug and placed a roll of flat cookies on a plate next to a jar of marmalade. She never sat down with Vicki but instead wiped counters, scrubbed the floors, and poured more milk each time it got low. As the American woman nibbled on
galletas
and complimented Rosario on the marmalade every other bite, the Spanish woman poured out her life and boldly shared her opinions on everything.

Though barely understanding one another’s native words, the women communicated. Vicki grew empathetic as Rosario’s eyes saddened. She felt homesickness as Rosario’s voice lowered. She felt anger as Rosario’s hand wildly flailed in dramatic gestures, and she felt frustrated as Rosario wiped her dirty hands on her apron and closed her eyes in silence.

Vicki now appreciated the significance of the family tree exercise they once did in one of her Spanish classes as Rosario told her how she missed her aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, brothers, nephews, nieces, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, great-uncles, great-aunts, second cousins - all living in Pamplona. She shared how her husband loved food so much that his stomach had grown bigger by the day, and how she worried about his ever-growing
estomago
. She mentioned how her life consisted of nothing but cooking and cleaning, and how the collapse of the Franco Regime had accelerated a social/sexual revolution in her country and how, along with the downfall of Franco, came a downfall of morals. The
señora
liked the fact that birth control, abortion, divorce, homosexuality, and adultery were all illegal under Franco. Now,
la gente
do all of these things—littered the streets, picked public flowers, skipped church, and sunbathed nude along the coastal beaches. She shook her head in a tempered disbelief as she spoke.

Was Rosario saying she missed
Francisco Franco?
A man who ruled the country with an iron fist for forty years? Vicki spread pear-flavored marmalade on another cookie and sipped her warm milk.

The mornings came and went as quickly as the marmalade in the jar disappeared, and the two women continued communicating in a way that demanded more than simply traditional talking and listening. It required a keen observation of tones, hand gestures, facial expressions, and body language. Vicki understood her
señora
well over morning breakfasts.

During the christening of a new jar of plum marmalade one morning, she slowly asked Rosario what she feared most in life.

“Nada. No tengo ningun miedo,”
replied the woman as she hit the jar against the counter to loosen the lid.

“You must fear something. Everyone fears something,” said Vicki.

“Fear no, anger yes,
si, si
. If fears won’t go away, get angry at them. Drive them away because fears are the enemies!” shouted the Roman Catholic and believer in Christ.

“Do you ever fear or get angry at death?”

“No. Only those without God, without a plan for salvation, should fear death. Then and only then, it should be their biggest fear in life.”

“Despite your faith in God, do you ever personally find yourself fearing death?” Vicki spread marmalade onto a cookie and took a bite.

“Only when my children were young. I feared that death might take me and leave them motherless,” she answered.
“El muerto
should hold no terrors because it is only the beginning of eternal life with God.”

“What would you say to someone who feared death?”

“Pray,” she replied, then gave the sign of the cross and blew a kiss up to the ceiling.

Vicki missed the mornings with Rosario, but her next two weeks were spent sightseeing throughout Spain with a group of other American students from various Midwest colleges. The foreign studies program grouped them together initially to minimize culture shock and develop English-speaking contacts, should they be needed through the
semestre
.

Together they toured El Museo Del Prado and El Palacio Real. They drank pitchers of sangria and ate
tapas
in
masones
. They climbed to the top of the Roman aqueducts in Segovia and walked the Alcazon castle where Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand gave Christopher Columbus permission to go to the New World. It also claimed to be the castle that Walt Disney modeled his castle after. Their last few
dias
together were spent in and around Cantabria, a town lying along the Bay of Biscay, better known as El Mar Cantabrio. There they hiked the Picos de Europas—mountains in Northern Spain that rose to almost nine thousand feet—ate in exquisite restaurants, slept in bed-and-breakfasts and savored life.

Dear Grandma
,

A mural of heaven! Someday, my dream is to own property in Los Picos de Europa, and on that property I’d like a Spanish-style inn. I can’t take such magnificent nature for granted. As our bus trudged up the winding mountains, wild bulls crossed the dirt road in front of us. Let me tell you, bulls do have the right of way in Spain, and they can take as long as they like
.

I also spotted a tiny, solitary fisherman standing on a stretch of sand at the foot of the immense weather-beaten cliff. I wonder what his catch options are in water like that. Tarpon? Shark? Whales? I’d love to go fishing with him. I hear those waters host the finest seafood in the world. Then again, I heard it from a boastful little old Spaniard who was chopping wood. These people are proud of what they have and of their magnificent country
.

Hiking through the mountains was treacherous, and we got dizzy, but I felt like it was the highest and closest I’ve ever stood to Heaven. It began pouring, and I fell a distance, cutting my knee, but I still felt an exhilarating high. I felt in tune with God and His beauty, His art
.

Then we stopped at the bottom of a waterfall. I stood to the side and put my hands in the crashing water. Its temperature pierced through me. It was then I realized there are several levels at which we can participate in life. So, despite the group looking at me as if I were just released from a mental asylum, I quickly pulled my shoes and socks off and started to wade in the icy pool. I then chose to hold my head under the falling water. But then, I decided to go one step further and walked under the waterfall, not minding that my clothes were also getting drenched
.

Unfortunately, I slipped on a rock and fell like a child in the tub. I must not have looked hurt because within seconds, shoes, and socks were flying everywhere and the entire group joined me. Thankfully, the path led us to a sunny spot so we could dry ourselves off and tame our goose bumps
.

I don’t want to return to Madrid. It’s a busy city! It’s too much of a culture shock after the island. Maybe I’m in that purgatory stage, lingering between two comfort zones. Will I ever love Spain as much as I loved the island?

Anyway, I took photos of my seafood soup at night. In it were foreign-looking shells, far different from the shells of Sanibel Island
.

P.S. How does it feel, Grandma, being cast back to your Maker? He loves you so much that he took you back!

After spending the night in a quaint valley inn situated in the mountains of Spain, Vicki dreaded leaving the next morning. She longed for more time to walk with the roosters of the country and to talk to the old, toothless, parch-faced farmers chopping wood in their backyards. The natives of the valley had an ignorance that tasted as pleasantly pure as honey from a hive. She wanted to sit in the geranium- and laundry-filled porches of the little inn and write letters to Grandma. She liked the cold, wet valley air that cleansed her pores. It reminded her for a moment of Michigan’s chill. About this time of year the crispy leaves would start to fall, delicately covering the ground over Rebecca’s grave site.