Tales of Cafeterians

[smokingboot]

Cafeterians: a classification of homo sapiens evolved specifically to inhabit bars and restaurants. Defining environmental factors include plazas, wine, and tapas, but can adapt to anywhere with a pavement.

I hadn't quite expected her to have less clue than I did about where we were going; Whimsy was looking a bit dazed, but I didn't know if this was due to the crowds, the party, or the power of herbal cigarettes. We all met at the Puerta Real, where she instantly asked me to get them to a bar. This was easy, the Bib-Rambla's perfect for cafeterians. The English habit of putting kids and gramps away then going out on the razz would seem a strange rather mean approach in Granada where everyone gathers indiscriminately; lovers, friends, traders, students, tourists, pensioners, kids, there's no better place for people watching. I could see Whimsy and the others settling into it, M looking around her with that bright sharp gaze she never loses.

'I wanted to come out early, explore the city,' she said, 'but no-one would move!'

There's a lot to explore but the heat's an issue here, even in early April. The mountain tops are losing snow fast and a drought threatens this summer.

'I've been working on my garden,' explained Whimsy, 'I'd have gone mad during Covid otherwise. It's heart breaking to see it all parched and dry when it should be lush.' There's been more to trouble her than that. Spain took lockdown very seriously and she lived in virtual isolation up in the mountains, but travellers came and set up camp in a field nearby. She loved the sound of them making music, their children playing, just people being pleasant and easy. Unfortunately, some neighbouring Brits bullied the travellers away claiming to own that field, when in fact they do not, they just wanted to, er, 'harvest' the olives that grow there. Things got fractious, physical. Whimsy remonstrated, called her neighbours violent thugs, but the damage was done, the travellers went away, the field is silent and now Whimsy's on the outs with the people who live closest to her.

I don't know what you do to keep paradise sweet. The obvious answer is to buy the field if it's available and you have the cash, then tell the travellers they can stay. Or, if that's not an option (and even if it can be done it solves nothing immediately) come down into town, meet your friends over a glass of wine, tell them the story as you look out on a place full of people being excellent to each other. Opposites can be antidotes. Tired of the city, find yourself in the wilderness, lonely in the wilderness, lose yourself in the city. I'm fortunate in so much as both work for me. Once I know what I need, I can find it.

Then M told me of her woes, and these probably deserve either no mention, as a matter of privacy, or a post of their own. She's not being private; she's roaring with anger, which strikes me as a sign of good mental health.
'See these wrinkles?' She said, pointing to her eyes, 'that's what this has done to me. It's aged me.' All I could see was the same woman I knew many years ago, eyes sparkling with ire rather than enthusiasm, but still sparkling. Wrinkles yes, but we all get those.

Across all this, I could feel the healing power of the old city reassuring us that there's beauty in people too, they're not all bullies and betrayers. Then we went to the little concert at the Pabellon. Even this had an element of the whacked out to it; Whimsy had forgotten to buy me a ticket. It was easily amended online, but it did reinforce that sense of my old friend being in something of a dream. Candlelight and Vivaldi combined to lure us into the most beautiful sunset over Granada. My phone couldn't capture the pure ruby red of it, or the evening star hovering over the old town, but here's the best it could do.

Comments

[mallorys_camera]

Photo is still beautiful. 😀

[smokingboot]

Thank you, it felt sublime X