Cangrejos de rio

Yesterday´s midday meal: the first course was a bowl of judias verdes, or French beans (haricots?), in a soupy juice with onions. Next came a filete plancha, a thin grilled steak (note: I am carnivorous for the duration). Last and best was the dessert, torrijas—similar to French toast, but served cold: thick, round slices of bread dipped in egg and grilled, and afterwards topped with a clear, lemony syrup. Fabulous.

Later I wandered out for a walk in the village. I tried to avoid the old people out walking with their canes and/or small dogs. I knew they would talk to me and that I would not understand. Maybe I´m confused by what seems a double commitment on this trip so far: to learn Spanish, to go on a long walk. It seems I must focus on one or the other. I can see staying in Espinosa and devoting myself to Spanish (if Montse and Manolo would have me); but my plan—and still strongest desire—is to walk.

By evening the sky had clouded over, the wind had risen, and it looked as if rain would be coming in from the south. A couple hours before dinner I went out into the fields with Manolo again. We drove out in a new (to me) direction, west of the small river. Manolo owns a great amount of land, it seems to me, but when I asked the other day how much, he said simply “bastante” (enough). As if concerned that such an answer was too curt, he then added that he does not farm alone—but I´m pretty sure he has only one partner, his brother-in-law, Femo.

We drove a mile or two up and down over the rolling land before Manolo nosed the Suzuki off the narrow dirt road and just into a field. “Guisante,” he said, pointing through the windshield, and I paged through my dictionary…: peas. “Por animales,” he added, “no humanos.” I said “entiendo,” a word I use a lot, though probably not more than its partner, “no entiendo.” We got out and Manolo pushed a cupped hand into the thick growth of waist-high guisante, using his other hand to shake the plants. He withdrew his still-cupped hand and showed it to me. A few tiny green insects crawled across his palm. I took this to mean trouble, but he said no. “Pocos,” he said, “no es una problema.” He had sprayed the field some time before, when the green bugs were more numerous, and we had come out to check if he would need to spray again.

We drove on to other fields. Perdices, or parrtidges, ran in front of the truck then sprung up to wing off to one side or the other. Numerous hawks glided past and over us, searching for prey. Manolo slowed as we passed along a field of barley and rolled down his window for a better view. He made a clicking sound with his tongue. Apparently the barley was not as robust as could be wished.

After another couple miles, back near the river, we stopped again. Manolo pointed up a slight rise to a patch of land bordered by small trees and said something that included the words “mi padre” and (I thought) “muerto.” I took this to indicate a cemetery, or maybe the spot where his father wants to be buried. Which goes to show that my interpretive skills are a work in progress.

We walked up the rise a hundred yards on a narrow path—to a vegetable garden that his father keeps. No dead people, current or anticipated.

The small sloped patch lay in a shallow fold between two vast fields of wheat; the garden´s shape was triangular, with the apex at the downhill end. A few leeks were planted at the narrow top, then, moving uphill, garlic and green onions in longer rows. Next came a large section of garbanzo beans, then green beans, then potatoes. The branches of a walnut tree leaned over the potatoes at the high end of the garden; next to the tree was a shallow concrete pond, filled with algae-covered water. Along the far side of the garden stood a few small quince and hazelnut trees, and down through the middle there were several apple trees.

It seemed a lot for one old man and his wife (especially considering abuelo has another, larger garden in the village), and I asked Manolo if his father sold the produce. No, he gives it to his son (Manolo) and daughter´s families, and to others in the village. He likes to keep busy, Manolo said, as if that explained the generosity.

Dinner was served not long after we returned to the house. Montse ladled my plate with ten or so dark red crayfish (cangrejos de rio). These proved more work than they were really worth--the tails were tasty (think crab) but small, while the body was inedible, as far as I was concerned, though the others obviously felt differently. The claws provided so little meat that they were hardly worth the bother. Plus I made a huge mess of my hands and face eating the crayfish, which were soaked in an excellent sauce. While everyone else seemed able to limit the damage to their fingertips, I was up to my elbows. I was quite relieved when I finally worked my way through the last of the creatures on my plate; Montse offered me more, and I tried to keep the alarm from my voice when I said, “no, gracias.” I was, though, happy to use my bread to soak up the red and oniony sauce on my plate (the part not covered with crayfish remnants). Montse, ever watchful, took a pan from the stove and ladled the last spoonful of sauce onto my plate.

Here in Espinosa I eat and sleep and read and (try to) talk. I have no work, and that´s odd but not troublesome. I suppose I do have a task of sorts, and that is to pay attention. Which is not difficult. Everything is strange and unfamiliar, so everything catches my attention. I´m always operating from a position of ignorance, which is often exciting but which at times makes me weary. It´s good to get off the couch and leave home, but I do love my couch. It´s raining here today, and I prefer the sun.