Cup of Joe

With a few empty, itinerant hours to kill between my seventh grade classroom and my eleven o'clock Spanish literature course, I found myself—diverted from my original intention to read on the venerable, uneven stones of the wall that spoons the Rio Darro—clumsily pursuing a stunning vista of the Sierra Nevada mountains.

It wasn´t as romantic as it sounds.

Chasing the view but equally determined to find a comfortable place from which to enjoy it, I found myself moments later on a low-shaded bench, a cafe just a few steps away... charming, but my view was utterly obstructed by the seven- and eight story buildings of Granada’s bustling downtown.

Still, I pulled out several books from my book bag and, passing over my Spanish novel for the moment, I opened Anne Lamott’s, Traveling Mercies. It wasn’t long after that a woman approached, asking me rather presumptuously to lend her money for a “café.” Well, I´d been reading about grace and Anne Lamott´s zany humor, and with the unformed thought that this moment might surprise me with unexpected grace, I grudgingly pulled my wallet from my bag.

She told me it cost five Euro.

I looked at her askance, asking incredulously, “for a cup of coffee…?”

“And some toast,” she replied.

I very well knew a cup of coffee and some toast would cost perhaps, perhaps two and a half euro. (And that´d be an expensive piece of toast), and told her I’d give three. (In the .1 seconds that I had to think about it, it seemed like a comprise… It became quickly evident, however, that is was a victory. Her victory). As she walked away proudly with my three euro in her hand, I muttered grudgingly, ¨Que dios te bendiga,¨ which, with wholly unveiled hostility, sounded more like a threat than a blessing.

Here´s the thing: I didn´t feel blessed. I felt had. What gall, to ask me for a $7 (US currency) cup of coffee!

She didn´t look up at me with the grateful smile of the accordion player who often plays beneath the cathedral, one eye half closed, and who I often like to thank with a coin for his music; songs at once stunning and melancholy, humble.

She didn´t bring her fist to her heart and dip her knees, like the guitar-playing duo I had encountered weeks before, thanking me for a mere 50 cent-piece with a gesture so genuinely humble—exuding such gratitude—it left me momentarily motionless in the street, laughing in delighted wonder, wishing I had given more.

She didn´t smile as we stopped outside the supermarket with a spare coin, handkerchief covering hair and hand cupped to receive it, and ask if I was my host mother´s daughter, laughing along with her clumsy explanation as though she was an old friend.

Or offer a quick smile like the town mime, who steps willingly out-of-character to talk with curious children, or tourists, or passers-by.

No, she was proud. She lacked the humility I had come to expect from someone earning their living on the street, keening on the accordion, or dipping his knees gratefully, or blessing us with her laughter. And without such humility, I found myself entirely devoid of compassion.

Maybe then, the blessing is the dissolution of expectations... that, because they live on the street, they ought to be humble, they ought to be grateful, that compassion is earned.

Either way, I was had by the gypsy woman who asked me for an absurdly expensive cup of joe. Who demanded—because who was stopping her?—a 5E piece of toast. And who left the cafe without either, but with my 3E clutched in her fist.

So maybe I should just laugh it myself. Laugh because, even in my giving, I expect to be rewarded, or at least reimbursed… with music, or humility, or laughter. At the very least, with the sense that I’ve done some good. Laugh because, have I ever given genuinely without this expectation? Laugh because at twenty, I ought to know how to give, but God is still, (still!) giving me lessons in giving. 

An Eager *Attempt* at Poetry

In Garrison Keillor's(?) introduction to his collection of poetry titled, Good Poems for Hard Times, he mentions that, after a couple of years of eager attempts at writing poetry, he finally realized that he did poetry a greater service by enjoying it, rather than creating it. 

I fear I am in the midst of drawing the same conclusion. Poetry is not my forte, and while I may be a delighted aficionado, I fear I am not a poet. (That is, in the generic sense of the word.)

Nevertheless, a couple of times while sitting (lying, lounging... or as much as you can lounge on a stone wall) on a thick stone wall that rises from the edge of the river on the Paseo de los Tristes, I've found myself pulling my journal from my bag and putting my hand to poetry. 

For better or worse, I thought I'd share:

Poem 1, Untitled

Shoulders and knees and gracefully coned feet

pressed hard to stone.

Head folded into hands folded into book

folded into brook gurgling a stone’s throw below.

Street musicians’ low keen: hand drums and sax and jazz

and half-hippy absently plucking

scratched guitar on a bench nearby.

Footsteps of passersby

folded into hands and book and stone,

folded into sunlight freckling my shoulders.

Composing verses in my head,

lines I might write if the story

weren’t complete as it is.

Breeze a whisper of young couples

--children, really—flirting beneath fountains

And someone’s mutt nosing curiously

a passing puppy,

and stone beneath me

warmed by a thousand other pages

of transient lives.

_ _ _ _ _

Poem 2, Untitled

Blushing reds,

vines trailing carelessly from pots in black iron window grates

paint chipping, peeling away in haphazard strips

revealing brick, unintended,

creative degenerativity.

Violin accompanying brook’s gurgling

lending melody to its childlike babbling.

Sun dancing through dappled leaves

footsteps, sneakered feet of tourists,

heels of locals clicking smartly on uneven cobbled streets,

my own sandaled feet tucked neatly beneath folded legs,

notebook abandoned, blank pages flipping aimlessly in breeze.

Poetry, words, prayer unnecessary:

Holiness of fiddle, and brook,

and freckling morning sunshine on cobbled streets,

and footsteps of strangers,

and me, offering grateful silence to prayer.

Thoughts on Hospitality

This afternoon—one of the last in May and as delightful and bright as the rest of the month has been fickle and capricious—I toured the Alhambra for the second time. (The Alahambra is an eighth century Arab castle that overlooks Granada.) Absently following our guide—a Malaga native with an English mother who jumped fish-like in and out of Spanish and British English—I walked lazily over red brick paths, lingered under ivy-covered arches, and enjoyed a rare moment of freedom from frenetic camera-anxiety, having already documented the experience the first time. Unsure how long the tour might stretch and wanting the flexibility to grab lunch with some of the new CEA students at the end of the tour, I texted my host mother and told her I wouldn’t be eating with the family. This probably wasn’t the best or most considerate move, since lunch is such a fundamental part of the day. However, under the circumstances it didn’t seem entirely inappropriate.

Nevertheless, I was wrong. Walking in, gingerly, at five (later than I hoped) and perching on a stool in front of my host mother, I found myself momentarily speechless when her first question was, “what happened?” It wasn’t hostile or accusatory, but it was chastising. I explained nervously that the tour went late (although it didn’t go as late as I thought it might… I could have made it home for lunch but by that time I had already texted my host mother—not to mention I wanted to eat with other students), but apparently my host-mother had already prepared lunch and had included me among the number. She told me firmly, reprimandingly, that I should have told her sooner.

I had meant to text sooner, and I had thought I had sent the message a half-hour earlier, but I struggle understandably with my challengingly simplistic Spanish phone and I realized later the the message hadn’t sent. Explaining the predicament, I apologized profusely, knowing all the while that my excuses were limp and lifeless, hanging like spoiled fish at an afternoon market. Graciously, my host mother forgave me and told me it was no big deal, but after walking away and closing my bedroom door softly behind, I wanted to cry. I spent the next two hours on my bed—somewhat uncharacteristically, since I usually prefer to be in the family room reading or watching Spanish TV,  talking intermittently with my host family—too afraid or embarrassed or ashamed to face their disappointment, or at least what I imagined was disappointment.

You know what I think? I think Christianity—not to mention books, movies, and memories—romanticizes hospitality. I think hospitality is hard. It’s hard to host graciously, and it’s hard to be a gracious and thoughtful guest. This afternoon I found myself angry at myself for disappointing my host-mother, and equally angry at my host-mother for making me uncomfortable; I found myself promising to avoid any similar situations in the future. Doubtless, however, I will disappoint my host family, I will consciously or unconsciously do things that are inconsiderate. Hospitality isn’t easy for anyone: it's work. Haven’t we all eagerly anticipated the arrival of guests only to find ourselves holed up in some closet with a book trying desperately to avoid them? Work, however, doesn't have the last word. As much as hospitality is hard, it’s also generous, invitational and perhaps, above all, forgiving.

Being a guest, I sometimes find myself tip-toeing from room to room, meal to meal, avoiding anything that might be misconstrued as thoughtless or presumptuous—and failing, even with such care. As much as it takes generosity to be a host, it takes courage to be a guest too, to accept the invitation to make oneself at-home

It’s hard—and without doubt, it’s work—but it’s ultimately a blessing. It’s learning to live into the kingdom of heaven. Emulating the life of one who was homeless, one who relied on the hospitality of others, one who was guest, and one who is ultimately the Great Host, inviting us into his home with countless rooms, countless grace for those who sometimes overstep the boundaries, and the endless invitation to make ourselves truly, genuinely at-home.