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The bus finally rolled into Orgiva around 10am, opening its door about a
foot and a half away from another bus. I squeezed out and down between
the buses and immediately lost sight of the hippies I was going to tail
to the market. I wandered up to a group of middle-aged, nice looking
adults and asked, "Donde esta el mercado?" "Mercado?" the nice man looked
puzzled. I'd had this happen before, mostly with the word "carne" - I
just can't pronounce "carne" (meat) correctly, and it causes worlds of
trouble. So I pointed to the word in my dictionary (which I bought before
leaving Barcelona, so it had Spanish instructions on how to pronounce
English words - totally useless in that respect). "Oh! You're going to
the market!" he exclaimed in a charming British accent, "We're looking for
it too..." "Oh! You speak English!" I said, relieved. I wandered up (and I do mean UP) into the town with them, chatting about their holiday (vacation to us Americans) and mine. I used my mercado phrase on a native and got rapid directions in Spanish (luckily these are almost always accompianed by hand gestures, and I know right and left in Spanish). I left my British friends at the start of market and eagerly set off to look for my sissy - my sissy that I hadn't seen in almost a year! "Donde esta mi hermana?" I sung quietly under my breath. I was so excited, I didn't feel the heavy pack on my back (I did feel the two extra bags dragging down each arm, but we'll self-ridicule about that in a moment). I slowly make the circle of the market, peering into stalls and looking for my sister.... After the second rotation, I decided to give up for the moment and rest me and my stuff in the park in the center of the market. I sat on the bench and unhooked myself from my pack. I began to put some sunscreen on, trying to figure out what layer I'd end up in by the time the sun got high in the sky. I was sitting on this bench not 5 minutes when a very old man came hobbling up to me. He asked (in Andalucian Spanish, which is blessedly slow enough for me to mostly understand, even though they drop off the ends of almost all their words) if I was German. No, I said, I speak English. Oh, you're from England? No, I said, I'm from California (I never said "Americana" if I could help it). Then he went off into a request that I didn't quite understand. I left the "language barrier" look on my face even as I began to understand his jist from the repetition of the phrase, "vamos a mi casa" - Holly had warned me that men around these parts weren't shy about inquiring into services a girl may or may not be willing to sell. I wasn't willing. I shook my head with a slightly perplexed smile. "No entiende." I said. "No compredes?" he looked disappointed, then (I think) got raunchy on me (in Spanish). I shook my head, "Lo siento, no entiende. Adios!" He took the hint, finally, and shuffled off. I just had to chuckle. To be continued (hopefully later today . . .) | ||
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