Quixotic in Catalonia

art by the government of Spain

Spanish euro coins, c. 2010

(a bit of prose today)

I was mistaken . . .

. . . thinking people in Spain speak Spanish, my phrase-book Spanish would travel in Catalonia, the city of Barcelona represented the whole of Catalonia, and the people of Vic, a small medieval town in Catalonia, would be no different from the people of Barcelona;

thinking the taking of afternoon siestas, practised broadly in Spain, also in Catalonia, would not affect my ability to get a drink in the town square of the medieval town of Vic or to find an open shop somewhere, one with bottled water at least;

thinking, after I did eventually find one (entering, its door ajar, lights dim), that I knew how to use the euro, since I’d used it passably in Barcelona (Paris, too), that I had enough phrase-book Spanish to ask the price of something, that if at a loss, I could simply hold out a palmful of coins, let the smiling woman behind the counter pick out what she needed for a bottle of water, and be on my way;

thinking I had no clue what she was up to as she lifted from my palm and carefully turned over each euro coin, apparently to show me exactly how to determine its value (not by numbers, no), instead by whether it’s ridged or smooth along its edge, its diameter, its weight, its texture, the type and cast of its metal, plain or ringed and inlaid; by the significance as well of the imagery on each side of the coin: the map, the globe, an effigy of King Juan Carlos I (since abdicated), Cervantes, Don Quixote himself, the Santiago de Compostela cathedral, the number of stars . . . but then finding I did have a clue, or so it dawned on me as she talked, that what she was hoping, with her quiet Catalan and her patience, was for me to understand, in my body, through my nerves, in my fingertips, the precise physicality and unique iconography of each coin, indeed, of every artifact, in this land before I was ready, that is, properly initiated and qualified, to drink from the waters of this land, bottled or not, but more, because it was obvious that it was truly a moment of pleasure and pride for her, as it is for most peoples, to be able to impart to others the profound, sensuous experience that forms the moments, the hours, of each day of their lives.

I was mistaken, yes . . .

. . . thinking Vic was Barcelona and Barcelona Spain, a foreign tongue is just that, currency is no more than a collection of digits and siestas are not for shopkeepers;

that is, thinking thinking about the world is adequate to living it.

Don Quixote