I have finally been accepted into the neighborhood.
On the way into the village, there is a farm inhabited by a massive cow, some chickens, a horse and two dogs. The first few times I passed, the dogs went nuts for about 10 minutes - I could hear them going at it both before and after I actually passed them.
The next few times, they jumped around and barked half heartedly. A couple of times after that, they threw out one loud bark, then went back to lying on the ground.
Yesterday, they didn’t even move. They didn’t even raise their heads. I am no longer worth their time, since I don’t ever do anything interesting.
It’s odd what a sense of belonging this engenders in me.
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Yesterday, I was reading Sense and Sensibility and drinking a frappe on the patio of Cafe Art, in the main square of the village.
Across the street from Cafe Art, there is another coffee shop, which also serves lunch (something that Cafe Art does not do). It seems as if the servers from both places move back and forth between the two cafes with complete ease, so I am not sure if they are just owned by the same person, or what. And if they are....why not just join them up?
As I took a break from one of Marianne’s more flowery speeches, my attention was grabbed by a commotion across the street at the coffee shop. A man trooped out of the cafe with a whole fish impaled on a knife, a bundle of papers under his arm, and a lighter.
He was followed by the other half dozen men he had been chatting with.
In the middle of the street, he crouched down, put the paper in a pile, lit it on fire, and proceeded to blacken the skin of the fish. All the other men were laughing hysterically, while crouching around him and handing over their newspapers.
If a car happened to pass and it was driven by a man, he would stop, get out, and squat down on the ground with everyone else.
Any time a woman passed, she would stop for half a second, take in the whole situation with a withering glance, then close her eyes as if begging God for patience, and march on by. It was hilarious: the resurrection of the eager, fascinated little boy in these grown men, and the impatient, sophisticated rejection of them on the part of the women.
I don’t quite get the fascination of holding a fish over a pile of burning papers in the middle of a grubby street, but then I am female and don’t pretend to understand the intricacies of the simple joy which this type of situation seems to universally inspire in the hearts of men.
For some reason, I just loved being witness to such a scene - it was such an eager, unashamed embrace of the simple, sometimes bizarre things that give joy.
On the way into the village, there is a farm inhabited by a massive cow, some chickens, a horse and two dogs. The first few times I passed, the dogs went nuts for about 10 minutes - I could hear them going at it both before and after I actually passed them.
The next few times, they jumped around and barked half heartedly. A couple of times after that, they threw out one loud bark, then went back to lying on the ground.
Yesterday, they didn’t even move. They didn’t even raise their heads. I am no longer worth their time, since I don’t ever do anything interesting.
It’s odd what a sense of belonging this engenders in me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yesterday, I was reading Sense and Sensibility and drinking a frappe on the patio of Cafe Art, in the main square of the village.
Across the street from Cafe Art, there is another coffee shop, which also serves lunch (something that Cafe Art does not do). It seems as if the servers from both places move back and forth between the two cafes with complete ease, so I am not sure if they are just owned by the same person, or what. And if they are....why not just join them up?
As I took a break from one of Marianne’s more flowery speeches, my attention was grabbed by a commotion across the street at the coffee shop. A man trooped out of the cafe with a whole fish impaled on a knife, a bundle of papers under his arm, and a lighter.
He was followed by the other half dozen men he had been chatting with.
In the middle of the street, he crouched down, put the paper in a pile, lit it on fire, and proceeded to blacken the skin of the fish. All the other men were laughing hysterically, while crouching around him and handing over their newspapers.
If a car happened to pass and it was driven by a man, he would stop, get out, and squat down on the ground with everyone else.
Any time a woman passed, she would stop for half a second, take in the whole situation with a withering glance, then close her eyes as if begging God for patience, and march on by. It was hilarious: the resurrection of the eager, fascinated little boy in these grown men, and the impatient, sophisticated rejection of them on the part of the women.
I don’t quite get the fascination of holding a fish over a pile of burning papers in the middle of a grubby street, but then I am female and don’t pretend to understand the intricacies of the simple joy which this type of situation seems to universally inspire in the hearts of men.
For some reason, I just loved being witness to such a scene - it was such an eager, unashamed embrace of the simple, sometimes bizarre things that give joy.
Well I have to say..... If was there joining you at that cafe, I'd get up, walk back into the cafe, buy a news paper and join the fellas for a minute. Ask them who's dog keeps barking at Mary, laugh about, and then we'd be accepted into the neighborhood.
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