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After that I decided to go sit in a different square, on the
downslope just before the market. I sat under a nice tree on a bench
outside what appeared to be a very old church. I watched people walk to
and from market, hassling a couple of hippies about where my sister could
be. My conception of Beneficio was shattered by these interactions: these
guys lived in Beneficio but had never met or heard of my sister! What
kind of a community was this? How big could it be? Holly is a total babe
and these guys don't know who she is? What's going on here? I had sat on the bench about as long as I could stand it (it was probably about 11:15am by now) and I finally stood up, and began to strap the pack on, my intention being to walk back down into the town proper to find a hostel (I was tired and incredibly impatient, I know). I looked diagonally across the square, when who do I see right in front of me, walking up from the other corner, but my sissy! "Holly!" "Sissy!" I dropped the pack and bags back down on the bench and ran across the square to Holly. I swooped her up in my arms and spun her 'round and 'round, squeezing her tightly to me. Oh! It was so good to hug my sister again! She was weathered, with little lines in her baby face, and her hair was much stringier than I remembered it (a good shampoo - days later - restored her hair to its former glory), but she was just as beautiful as always. She was pleased to see me, although shocked at my impatience (I shouldn't have told her I was just going to find that hostel). We went back to the bench I had just left and sat down together to talk. We were sitting on the bench not 5 minutes . . . Yes. Again, an old man shuffled up to us on his cane. This one was missing most of his front teeth and had warts right under each eye. He was so ugly he was almost cute, and he reminded me of a hobbit somehow, with his little greenish suit and small stature, as if he'd just come from his tidy little hobbit-hole under the hill to market. Holly's Spanish is much better than mine, but not perfect, which means that people will talk to her nice and slowly and with simple words that I found I had little trouble understanding. Holly was telling him that I was her sister, and that I had just arrived from America (no, Holly, no, it's San Francisco dammit, not America!). He began to suggest a homecoming party in some detail, and Holly began looking at him sideways, suspiciously, and she spoke to him in her, "now, let's behave ourselves" voice she uses with hopeful men. Then she glanced at me. And burst out laughing and collapsed in my lap. "Oh! The look on your face; you look disgusted! He's just a harmless old man; you don't have to look like that!" She was helpless with her laughter, however, and I think that hurt the old guy's feelings more than the look on my face (which he certainly had not looked up to see). She stuttered a few phrases between her laughing fits, and the old guy looked sorta sad but resigned and shuffled along his way. Gods, I still feel bad for that old guy. After that incident, I spent a lot of time pitying men in Spain. I never once felt sorry for any of the women - they are strong, noble-looking and seem to take care of themselves with a dignity American women don't come close to meeting (as a culture; individuals exceptions apply). But the men; they are EXTREMELY good looking in their youth - mostly tall, with well-built bodies and smooth tan skin and shiny black hair and those piercing, dramatic eyes . . . Yes, in their youth, they are like gods, and the foreign women at least swoon at the sight of them (guapo, guapo, guapo!). But this is a country of smokers, especially among those men, and by old age they are mostly robbed of the dignified looks of most older gentlemen, as their skin wrinkles worse from the wear, the skin around their mouth drawn from years of pukering up to ciggarettes, their eyes dulled yellow from peering through curling smoke. Many of the older men seemed single, as did the women, but they seemed much sadder about it, often shuffling around alone as their sons and grandsons wooed this generation of young beauties. Women seemed to group together - perhaps generations of families travelling or shopping together - and they seemed to have a strong bond despite age differences. It's a strongly Catholic country (though I challenge you to find anyone who actually *goes* to church) so I wonder if it has something to do with the religion separating the sexes. In any case, I admired the women, who kept their beauty far into old age and walked with a grace and power that the old men simply lacked. It was very odd; both heartening and sad. Holly and I spent far too long looking for somewhere in that small town to stash my bags for the day (I knew she would yell at me for overpacking, and she did). We took turns guarding them as one of us did our shopping in the market - I bought a pair of cheap, ugly tennis shoes as David had thrown my hiking boots out of my pack because there was not enough room. The hiking boots became a big issue, as they were perhaps the most necessary item I should have brought. The tennis shoes were not broken in, of course, and they had awful tread (which was treacherous on the paths I was yet to walk - I had no idea what I was in for, as Holly said "hill" not "mountain") and - worst of all - they were a light lime green which glowed brighter than the starkest white. They were Uuuuugly, and Holly immediately made fun of my feet, not getting us off on the right foot - har har. I bought a wool jacket of many colors from a South American couple selling incredibly beautiful clothes on a blanket at market. This was the good purchase, as Beneficio was COLD and I hadn't brought enough warm stuff along. Holly stopped me from buying a beautiful embroidered white blouse - something I'm still just a bit bitter about . . . Up next: Gemini's - The English Bar where the travellers gather. | ||
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