Have a Cuppa Conmigo... 1st Edition.
People watching on a Wednesday morning in the sunny south of Spain whilst sipping on my cuppa cafe con leche.
I’ve just finished a blood test, and the appointments are always so early, for someone like me who’s not a morning person. So to ease the pain of an 8 am needle, I decide to enjoy a breakfast out. I arrived to the bar today with a desire to write, so I wander inside to both place my order and borrow a pen. No questions asked I was handed one, a red one with Rute written in white, a neighbouring town. I go back out to carefully choose my table.
Shortly after my coffee and toast arrive together with a ceremonious thud as the waitress puts them down in a flurry and a ‘‘buen provecho’’.
First I puncture holes into my toast with the knife, a tip to help the oil soak in, given to me by my father-in-law. I then drizzle on cloudy olive oil, the lid clicked as I open it, announcing its newness. The oil is grown and pressed in the very town I sit in, a town cuddled by a sea of olive trees. Next add the tomato with the teaspoon, lastly sprinkling a little salt, but not too much.
I’ve located another bar that serves plant based milk, this time almond, a hat-trick of three I’ve found so far. One soya, one oat and now almond! With my toast prepped, and my coffee in hand, I’m ready to start the day in the best way, the Andalusian way. A way that I’m very much getting into.
As I am enjoying my media tostada con tomate (a slice of toast with whizzed up tomato, the technical term) I sit and watch the world go by and taking in the details of what’s around me. Whilst my eyes are busy being nosy, my hand is scrawling down what I see, as the only paper I have on me is the appointment slip from the blood test I’d just attended, I hope I don’t need it again as it’s now covered in my ramblings.
As I’m perched on a high chair (not a highchair just to be clear), looking out onto a pedestrian street, I sit opposite the bakery where people queue to get their daily bread. The line is spilling out of the shop, where they chat to those who pass or each other, not just picking up their much needed gluten but whatever nuggets of gossip they’re excitedly telling each other.
Watching the people passing by, a character catches my attention. A man sauntering with a cowboy hat, a black waist coat and a rugged look about him. The only snippet of conversation I hear is ‘hijo de puta’ (roughly translated to motherfucker) which so early and a fairly calm street feels out of sync. I want to get a camera to capture these people, but honestly I’d be nervous for this guy to notice me!
Only moments after, movement makes me look up, a contrast to the man I described, a woman in her soft baby pink dressing gown arreglado, made up as if she’s going to a wedding (she’s not, she’ll just be going about her daily business). Hair sat firm on her head, clearly attending the hair dressers on a regular basis, a tradition among a certain age of Spanish women. Brows drawn in place, lashes painted black contrasting the eye shadow glittering behind, a smooth covering of foundation and blush. She comes out on her balcony to adjust the banners there. The banner is balcony length and wide beige cloth with details sewn or printed on and trimmed with tassels. Each of her three second story, street facing balconies have one of these carefully hung up.
These last few weeks, they’ve been celebrating the 75th year of the coronation of the virgin Araceli, the patron saint of this central Andalusian town. The streets show it, adorned to show their pride. She’s a big deal in these parts, I think who Araceli is and her fame could be a whole piece of writing in itself. The middle balcony has a more detailed banner, celebrating the 2023 anniversary with a crown and doves. All three are waving softly in the breeze.
I feel relief, the waitress has put the awning out, since I arrived the sun has been creeping round the corner warming my face with 27ºc heat at not even 9.30 am. My guiri (a colloquial word to describe fair-skinned foreigners) skin can’t handle that.
As I run out of space on my paper, a man in his silver years sits next to me, with two glasses. I know this man, well not him personally but his type, the famous generation of the Spanish retired. Famous for their ability to thoroughly enjoy the golden years of their life. These two glasses, one with water, and the second a small stout wine-looking glass with what I can imagine is anis, a liquor that is made in that nearby town of Rute. The same town I advertise on the pen with which I write.
This is Spain I said to myself, cheap breakfast at €2.40 and retired neighbours sipping their morning shot. My breakfast finished and out of writing space, I decide to take my leave to get on with my day.
What does breakfast look like where you’re living or from? Is it done on a regular basis by the locals or you? Or is it a special occasion type of thing? Do people buy bread daily from the bakery or is it from the supermarket these days?
Ha! I didn't know about the puncturing your toast trick! I'll try it next time. 😊
This is a great, atmospheric piece of writing. All those details while people-watching and that slow rhythm so typical of this country. Loved it! 👏🏼
Being Asian, we have rice for breakfast! Quite heavy. With meat, eggs and oohhh that morning coffee.