La Papa Magica

Yes, these last few days have left their ailments: heinous hernias, bubbling burns, knocked around knees. This morning, as my stomach tied its first knot, I knew today would be no exception. The worst of this affliction is the source of its aggravation: Food. Food to me is not only sustenance but inspiration; a tantalizing beacon in the distance, like a holy grail, always seeming a lifetime away. Food to me is the pleasure I must always put off ‘til marriage so that our coming together will be sacred and, undoubtedly, full of unimagined pleasure. The moon to me is no more than a English muffin that sings a graceful lullaby to quell my anxiety and tuck me in, saying tomorrow holds innumerable possibilities (pancakes, eggs, arepas, coffee, beans, tortillas, juices and meats, veggies and dressings, Breakfast, lunch and dinner). For no matter what happened today, there is always breakfast tomorrow. Each meal must be contemplated and schemed perfectly, peered at with keenly focused intensity so that every bite might come to fruition with the same spectacular explosion as the bite before and the bite that will follow. And when this exhaustive process is complete, I peer at my empty plate with regret, criticizing every moment of distraction, every crumb of gods work that went unappreciated (also called gluttony (gula)), for at that moment of completion, with no more to eat, I believe the next few hours between this meal and the next will be my demise.

 Such as it is, every meal is my life and my death, my hope and the annihilation of my hope, the reason I maintain my composure throughout the day and the reason I lose it. Thus today, when eating should be the source of my discomfort, I am most disposed to misery. My source for joy and inspiration has gone, and with no food to look forward to I wander the desserts of solitude in dismay, praying for liberation as I eat yogurt and mashed potatoes, spasmodically running to the bathroom for relief.

The only activity for which I could drag myself away from my pouting was to talk to the tourists that bought alcohol from the family business. The store is attached to the house above with an appearance reminiscent of a storeroom rather than an actual store. Piero Stagno, the fit 70 pico, white haired Italian father of the family, sells the dozens of liquors and wines within that he produces in la finca gavillan. Every day cars pass in front of our house to purchase ciocolatto, amaretto, Limoncello, Milano, Whiskey, licor de mora, vino de mora(dulce, y seco), mermelada de mora, vinagre de mora, siropo de mora, Grappa de mora and more. I even considered sending a bottle of coffee liquor he made back to Maine in a showing of solidarity.
While I was above speaking to the clients about the process of making wines, the son of Piero, Pietro, was working behind the counter. Pietro was imitating an accent from the Bask region of Spain while I struggled to speak in my thick Gringo accent. The clients thought these two crazy crackers were playing a cruel joke and asked if we had been trying the liquors. Pietro ignored the comment and looked to me, smiling knowingly and used some outlandish, Castilian phrase he learned from the internet to kvetch of our ungrateful guests, and I did not understand a word of what he was saying.  I did my best to put myself in the shoes of our patrons, but gave up rather quickly. Such peculiarities were not so easily imagined, especially since I was already running, once again, towards a bathroom.