|
20 Fruita There wasn't much for scenery as we toiled along the plateau. I felt as if I were on a stationary bike. The morning fog was as thick as pea soup. It was probably safer to ride at night. Cars close enough to spit on honked their horns. We took that to mean: "Get the hell off the road you idiots! I can't see you until I run over you!" We went ten kilometers and stopped in a village to wait for the fog to clear. No one was around except a couple of farmers warming up their tractors. We asked a morning walker where we could buy bread. He pointed the way. We deciphered two words: plaza and beige. We could smell bread, but no sign of where it emanated from. We located the plaza. Everything was beige. It was still too early for stores to be open. They opened later in Spain-nine thirty for most businesses. I checked an alley where the fresh bread smell was strongest. A doorway was open a crack. No signs gave clues to what may be inside. I squinted my eye and peered through the slit. A woman was bent over an oven removing fresh bread. I bought two hot loaves. Back at the plaza bench we inhaled the choice morsels. I returned to the alley bakery for more. We hadn't eaten much in Spain. In the next town we never would have found the food store without help. The fountain in village square had concrete lions with water spurting out their mouths. An old man stood next to the wall. I asked him, "Fruit? Fruita? Fruitah? Fruttah?" His face betrayed no recognition of anything remotely familiar to words of those sounds. A woman came along. I said, "Fruita." "Si, fruita." she said. Then the old chap caught on and exploded with "Fruita!" whereupon they both started explaining, in opposite directions, where to go. The old man said, "Tobacco." Was he asking me for tobacco? It turned out there were two fruit places in town. One happened to be at the tobacco store. Since we remembered passing the tobacco sign we decided to go there, even though the woman said the other store had better fruit for less money. We hadn't been able to figure out where stores were in town. There wasn't a main street with rows of shops. The only items of quantity were sheep turds. Shepherds herded their flocks through the streets on the way to the day's mowing assignment. One flock followed a burro. Just like in real life-the leader was an ass. At the tobacco store I couldn't tell if it was open. Beyond the colourful hanging beads the interior was dark. Sharon stuck her head into the doorway and an old woman squawked for her to come in. After buying fruit and vegetables, we returned to the benches by the fountain to eat our lunch. The two locals who provided directions were very pleased we had been successful. The tiny woman came over smiling and pointing to our food. She gave another soliloquy in Spanish and then wandered off. It was siesta. Even the noisy fountain was silent. I guess the splashing kept them awake. Whose job was it to turn off the fountain every day at siesta time anyway? Café bars always had a crowd of men and were town's meeting places. The one across from us was no exception. Gathering to socialize was much more a part of their culture than in North America. Truck drivers imbibed in an afternoon nip. I had wondered where truck drivers went during siesta. Then they whipped back on the road? That really made me feel safe. |
Book Info