Bona Taula, Bon Sentit, Bona Dona, Bon Llit

Words & Pictures

Copyright 2011

Roberto Sawatzki

Bona Taula, Bon Sentit, Bona Dona, Bon Llit

“What do you suppose that means?”

said Jordan, studying the tiled face of the

sundial mounted over the entrance, two

mermaids holding up a plaque with a

message in Catalunyan.

“Maybe it means affordable, chic

hotel,” said Diane. “Anyway, let’s hope so.”

The desk clerk, a well dressed and meticulously groomed young

man, welcomed them with an appraising glance. “Mr. and Mrs. Farmar?”

he said. “Of your arrival we have heard.”

“Si,” said Jordan, “A reservation for two, por favor.” Jordan

signed the guest register and passed it to Diane. She signed her full,

three-decker name, which was not Farmar. Keeping her own name was

the rock upon which their marriage was based.

“Cash or carte?” said the desk clerk

“Cash,” said Jordan, “I’ve got euros.” He unbuttoned his shirt,

unzipped the moneybelt, and pulled out some colorful bills, something he

would never get used to, just like, a moment later, the intimacy of the lift.

There was barely room for two, with two backpacks and two roller bags.

Forced to stand face to face for the long slow ride to the second floor,

Jordan and Diane had to laugh, have a sloppy kiss, and make up.

Released from the box, down the hall they rolled around a tiny

inner courtyard, motion-detectors lighting up wall sconces behind them.

Gleaming bamboo floor, French doors, and a balcony over the swimming

pool, dappled with dead leaves and debris, swallows swooping and

calling. There was a white and black tiled bathroom with a proper Britsh

bathtub and bidet and a view, out a tiny casement window, of a castle on

a hill. Except that none of the lights seemed to be working, the room was

perfect. Diane crashed on her bed. Jordan unpacked his bag, carefully

hanging all his clothes in the closet. Changing into shorts and sandals,

they packed a bag for the beach and set out on foot.

Down the worn marble staircase to the lobby where the desk clerk

sat reading the paper.

“Good day,” he said. “All is well with the room?”

“We have a problem with the lights,” said Diane. “They don’t

seem to work.”

“Ah, the lights! Of course, I should have told you. The room card

goes into, how you say, the sloot? You know? Just by the door and the

light switch,” he said, feeding an invisible card into an imaginary wall.

“When you return I will show.”

Diane led the way back to the highway and another pedestrian

overpass. Arcing up over cars and diesel fumes, they caught glimpses of

dunes and blue water. They desended into a neighborhood of cobblestone

streets, grand old homes. There was a green space, and a boardwalk with

joggers, walkers, and moms rolling strollers. Now it was Jordan who was

Jonesing for coffee, but now was not the season and the tourist shops

were boarded up, all the way out to the beach. Sun-dazzled in salt sea air,

barefooting across hot sand, they chose a spot to call their own, spreading

out Diane’s blue nylon poncho like a map of their desire. They picnicked

on cheese, crackers, and fruit. Jordan had packed an oxidant-rich mix of

dried apricots, cranberries, blueberries, and raspberries that would sustain

them for days.

“Where are the almonds?” said Jordan. “It says you can have

twenty-eight.”

“I put the almonds in your bag,” said Diane. “Where’s the New

York Times Sunday magazine? I’ve been saving it to read on the beach.”

“I thought you had it,” said Jordan.

“It was in your pack when we got on the plane in New York.”

“Oh crap, that’s right. Last I saw it was in the overhead bin. There

was a really good article in it too, about that guy. You know, that guy

with the book about that school in Nepal?”

“Oh well,” said Diane. “I was going to write a letter to Estrella, so

I might as well get going on that. I’m going to write every day and mail it

to her when we get back.”

“Mmmmhhh,” said Jordan. He was intent on taking a picture.

Now was the time. This is the picture:

Jordan put the camera back in it’s case and laid down on his half of the

poncho, pulling his baseball cap over his eyes. He could hear waves

plashing, seagulls squawking, voices calling in Catalunyan. He dreamed

he was floating in a night sky. An hour later he woke up feeling much

improved, but the left side of his body was burned bright red.

Packing up their gear, Diane and Jordan wandered back over the

dunes to the boardwalk, looking for coffee or even anyplace that was

open. They soon reached an intersection that looked familiar, the very

spot where a few hours before they had sat down on the curb in despair

during their search for a hotel.

“There’s got to be someplace open further on,” said Jordan. “It

looks like there’s traffic up ahead and maybe hotels on the beach.”

“It’s an eight-mile long beach, Jordan,” said Diane. “You can

get coffee at the Petrocat, At least we know they’re open.”

“We didn’t come all the way to Spain to drink gas station

coffee.”

“When did you get so choosy about coffee? I thought you’d

drink anything.”

“I thought you liked traveling.”

“There’s nothing open here but taverns,” said Diane. “Now

is not the time of being open because now is not tourist season. Why

don’t you go into town by yourself? I just want to lay down and take

a nap. That’s what they do here in the afternoon when it gets hot like

this. They siesta.”

Jordan promised to return “in an hour or so” and set off at a

fast clip, almost immediately veering off the pavement, stepping over a

wire fence and onto a dirt path. It led through a gap in the hedgerow to

a rutted dirt road next to an irrigation canal. Following the canal road,

Jordan arrived at a tiled pedestrian walkway: Parc Mediterranean and the

campus of Escuela de Technica de Castelldefels. A broad, trellised bridge

arched over the main canal. Stabilizing his camera on a bridge beam,

Jordan got a shot at the castle.

It was the smallest castle he’d ever heard of, not much bigger than your average American McMansion, and not in great

shape. Vandals had left their marks over the centuries, along with wind, rain, and gravity. Walls were in dis-repair, entrances blocked

and barricaded, chain-link fencing with razor wire on top closed off the whole rear quarter.

Diane didn’t believe in taking pictures. She would rather be in

a moment than make a moment. Jordan’s belief was that Diane didn’t

have the patience to stabilize her camera, try another angle, or come back

when the light was right. She wasn’t willing to take the time to crop and

edit, punch-up the contrast, or tone it down.

The winding path soon brought Jordan to an underpass beneath

the train tracks. Upstairs was a tiny train station made of brick and a

public square with pergola and pigeons. He was back at the place where

the bus had dropped them off. What had seemed like chaos on their

arrival now reavealed meaning and order.

Crossing the street, he started up the rambla. Most of the stores

were closed, except a bocateria on the square, opposite the church. For

one euro and 60 centavos, Jordan bought a café au lait and croissant. He

carried them outside on a tray and sat down at a table under a tree. He ate

and drank as slowly as he could. The two bells on the church tolled three

o’clock and Jordan, recalling Communions past, wondered if he should

turn around now or press on to the castle.

Diane would never make it up there. Not for such a funky

little castle, I mean really, why bother? There was nothing historic or

significant about it, let’s be clear about that.

Jordan made a complete circuit, snapping pictures all the way,

coming around to the main extrance at last. Thirty minutes had passed

since the coffee and Jordan realized he would be late but he couldn’t

stop—each photo seemed closer to capturing the castle. Well past time

to return, Jordan was zig-zagging down the path, framing views of

construction cranes towering over the city.

“Where the fuck have you been?” said Diane. “Having sex with

Spanish transvestites?”

“I’m half an hour late. Jesus. I got pictures of the castle.”

They squared off like boxers in the middle of the room, circling,

hands clenching involuntarily. The room was so elegant, it seemed to

Jordan inelegant of them to have a fight in it. Typically rude American

turistas, not up to snuff and behaving badly.

“I’ve been sitting in this room for an hour waiting for you.”

“Forty minutes, max. I thought you were having a nice nap.”

“I couldn’t get to sleep. I’ve been sitting here wondering what

you’re up to. Ditching me the first opportunity you get. And it’s so

typical. You have no idea what it’s like living with you. Whether you’ve

got Asperger’s or Selfish Gene Syndrome I don’t know, but you think

other women would put up with this behavior? Why don’t we just split

up now and spare ourselves the grief? I can’t even take a bath. There’s no

freakin’ plug.”

Now she was crying and lamely trying to strike him with her bad

arm.

“So your life is ruined because I was out taking pictures?”

“Your new obsession now that it’s not sex.”

“That happened nine months ago, isn’t it about time you let go of

it? That’s not me anymore. That’s why we’re here, don’t you get that?”

“No, I don’t really get that, Jordan. What I got was the part

about wait a year and see what happens. If we even survive this vacation

together.”

Kneebraces and a white tennis visor for Diane. Jordan put on his

yellow Tour de France cap that Estrella had brought back for him from

her semester abroad. Down the worn marble stairs to the lobby where the

desk clerk sat reading the paper.

“Dias,” he said. “The lights, they are okay?”

“Yes,” said Jordona. “But there is a problem with the bathtub.

There doesn’t seem to be a plug for it.”

“The bathtub?” said the clerk. “Something is wrong?”

“The tub, she is fine,” said Jordan, “but we need a plug for it. The

stopper, you know? To take of the bath?”

“Take of the bath?” said the clerk. “Not of the shower?”

“Si,” said Jordan, smiling with all his teeth. “To take of the bath

we must have of the plug.”

“I see,” the clerk, scrutinizing the couple as if for the first time. “I

will see what is the problem. We will make it right.”

“Bueno,” said Jordan. “Muchas gracias.”

They set out again, away from the sea this time, passing the

sleepy tennis academy—one court occupied by a man laconically

bouncing balls off the wall—down the tiled walk to the school, still in

session, kids playing in the yard behind high slatted fences.

“The English School,” said Jordan, reading the sign. “Right next

to the tennis academy and the hotel. Rick Steve’s says this place is rotten

with British come August.”

“The English School is its name?” said Diane, standing on her

toes to to peer through the windows. “Maybe I could get a job. I almost

brought my resume with me, too, but decided that is just what you don’t

want on vacation.”

“You could teach English here,” said Jordan. “Maybe drop by

tomorrow and have a chat?”

“Bright and early tomorrow morning? How likely is that? I

think not. Today we’re here, tomorrow we’re gone. And when we get to

Barcelona I’m buying a walking stick.”

She was clutching his arm, leaning her weight.

“You’re really going to need it when we get to the muntanyas.”

He led the way off the tiled walk, helping her over the low fence

and through the gap in the bushes.

“I can’t believe the shortcuts you find sometimes,” Diane

nattered. “No wonder you get lost so much.”

“Getting lost is what I’m best at,” said Jordan. “How else do you

discover anything new?”

“Well I don’t find it necessary to get lost,” said Diane. “All you

have to do is get oriented. What’s not to understand?” She stopped,

striking a pose. “If you know that the hotel is back that way,” she

said, pointing without looking, extending arms and wrists, two fingers

swirling. “And if you know that the castle is that way,” she said, pointing

at it right up there on the hill, “then you are Here.” Diane brought her

arms down, pirouetting as if modeling a new fall coat. “It’s all about

staying oriented, Jordan, don’t you see that?”

All that dancing around made Jordan’s neck hurt.

“I’m just naturally dis-oriented,” he said. “It’s my special talent.

But being lost doesn’t bother me. Solvitur ambulando.”

“What?”

“It’s Latin. Solvitur ambulando. The problem is solved by

walking around.”

She took his arm again and they pressed

onward, through the Parc Mediterranean, past people

walking dogs speaking their universal language, past

squadrons of ducks scooting out of bullrushes in the

canal. Over the footbridge and past patchwork gardens.

They arrived at the concrete wall and the gravel parking lot of the

train station. Picking up their pace in the crowd, they passed through the

echoing underpass beneath the railroad. Upstairs then, Diane leaning on

his arm, they crossed the street and entered the rambla.

“See how they walk together?” said Diane, nodding toward

another couple, carefully dressed, out for a stroll. “They promenade.”

Jordan saw that it was a processional and they were part of

it. Church bells were ringing as they entered the plaza,

sounding just like church bells of his youth. Santa Maria’s

bell tower was no larger than the one he had served in as

an altar boy, swinging on rough, braided ropes, competing

with other boys in making joyful noise. Lighting candles.

Donning garments in the quiet backstage calm of the

sacristy. On cue from the choir, joining the processional,

following the priest, sometimes several priests, in addition

to Monsenior Pautler on High Holy Days. The scent of

frankincense and myrhh and knowing when to ring the bells

as the priest lifted the ciborium: Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.

All is holy.

Jordan corrected his posture, stiffened his arm, and

they proceeded down the tiled walk, into the heart of town.

Siesta was over, stores were opening, school was out, and

the plaza was filling up with people, alone and in families of

parents, grandparents, and kids.

Tiny shops that had been closed an hour ago were now

busy with customers. Jordan was afraid of breaking merchandise

in the jammed little rooms so he waited outside while Diane

poked around inside, but never for very long. The good restaurants

weren’t yet open; all the window signs said come back at eight

o’clock.

“Now is not the time of dinner,” said Diane. “That’s what Maggie

was saying. Now is the time of going to the tappas bars.”

Menus were posted outside most of the taverns and sandwich

shops, with faded pictures of what was available to eat.

“What’s panella and boccadillas?” said Jordan. “Everyone seems

to have them.”

“Boccadillas are like a roll with ham and tomato paste,” said

Diane. “Paella is Spanish rice and it looks like you can get it with

anything.”

“Pescadillo?” said Jordan. “If that’s fish, let’s check this out.”

He pulled open the heavy wooden door and Diane walked inside.

A narrow, smoky, dimly lighted room and a row of men stationed along

a bar, faces blinded by the bright sun, startled to see a woman entering

their domain. Diane stopped at the threshold and started backing out,

bumping into Jordan.

“I guess not,” said Diane, pushing Jordan outside. “This is not the

place of women. This is the place of the men-only bar. If looks could kill

I would have been dead in the doorway. Although they might have let

you in.”

“Bummer,” said Jordan. “That looked like the best place.” They

had rambled all the way around a block and were back at the plaza, the

kids playing games, and supplicants quietly stepping into the church.

“Was there anything good down that way?” said Diane, pointing

across the square to an opening between old brick buildings.

“Is that a street?” said

Jordan. “It looks like an alley.”

“That’s a street here,” said

Diane.

The narrow cobblestone

lane was more residential than

commercial. Families were

sitting out on balconies among

the trees branches, calling across

to neighbors and down to friends

passing by in the street, their

repartee mixing with the calling

of birds and the echoing roar of a

motor scooter zig-zagging past,

then darting into another alley.

Midway down the block was a tiny

storefront with a sign that said:

Bocadillas y Café.

Drink Coca-Cola

In the window were fly-specked pictures of sandwiches,

crossiants, and cups that might once have been steaming full of

cappucino but had faded to ghosts of coffees past. Three tables, a counter

with two stools, and an ancient, black ceiling fan slowly turning beneath

a bank of flourescent lights. One of the tables was occupied by a man

reading a newspaper. The table by the door was taken by a tiny, ancient

couple sitting over coffee. The table by the window was theirs for the

taking.

“Fabulous,” said Diane, reading the menu. “They have ensalada

Spanish fields, in the distance, maybe, the Pyrhenees.

“What else is in the salad?” said Diane.

“Ensalada?” said the cook, looking at Diane like she must be

retarded while counting off the ingredients on his fingers. “Ensalada a los

lettucio, y los tomat, y el pepper verde, y olivios, y dhuna.”

“Letucio, y tomat, y pepper verde, y olivios,” said Diane. “Bueno.

These things I know. Perfecto. But what is dhuna?”

“Dhuna?” said the cook. “Dhuna es un pescadillo.”

“Pescadillo?” said Diane. “Pescadillo is fish?”

“Si,” said the man. “Dhuna es fish. Si.”

“Fish in the salad?” said Diane. “How can that be? Ensalada

asparagas with fish? Is it fried fish? Frito el pescadillo?”

“No frito,” said the cook, clearly dismayed at the thought. “Es

dhuna! You know, dhuna!” He turned abruptly away, dashing behind the

counter and into the kitchen again. There was the sound of heavy objects

sliding around on the floor and a sudden, heavy, thud. The curtains parted

and the cook came out with another commercial-size can in his hands,

and on the can a picture of a blue fin tuna.

“Tuna!” said Diane. “Oh. I see. Yes. Tuna. That will be fine.

Thank you.”

With a smile of relief, the cook said, “Ensalada asparagas con

dhuna,” and wrote it down on his pad. “And for you?” he said, looking at

Jordan with some apprehension.

esparagaso. What do you suppose that could mean in a place like this?”

She pulled open the door and stepped inside.

The man reading the paper looked up, smiled, and rose to greet

them. He was nattily dressed in a black shirt and pants and white apron.

“Taulas por dos?” said the man, gesturing toward the window

seats.

“Si,” said Diane. “Taulos por dos. Taulos means table?”

“Si, taulos means table,” said the man, leading them to the table

and pulling out a chair for Diane.

“You have ensalada?” said Diane. “Asparagasa ensalada?”

“Si,” the man nodded happily, bringing out menus and pointing at

the words.

“Asparagasa ensalada?” said Diane. “The long, thin ones, you

know?” She pinched her fingers together, then drew her hands apart,

drawing a line in the air.

“Si,” he said, repeating her gesture with his hands. “Asparagasa.”

“Fresh asparagas?” said Diane. “Now is not the time of fresh

asparagas. How can this be asparagasa ensalada?”

The cook was struck dumb for a moment. “Una momenta,” he

said, stepping behind the counter and passing through the curtain into

the kitchen. In a moment he emerged with a commercial-size can and

presented it, label-side up, like a bottle of wine, for Diane’s inspection.

On the can a picture of rows of green asparagus growing in sunny

“Boccadillo con jambon,” said Jordan.

“Ensalada ou patatas bravas?” said the cook.

“Patatas bravas?” said Jordan. “Is that french fries? Pommes

frites?”

“Si,” said the cook, smiling at Jordan’s asperity. “Patatas bravas

es pommes frites.”

“Bueno,” said Jordan. “Bocadillo, patatas bravas, and cerveza.”

“Cervaza por dos?” said the cook, looking from Jordan to Diane.

“No,” said Diane, “no cervaza for me. For me, aqua.”

“Agua,” said the cook. “Agua fresca or aqua carbonera?”

The cook returned with two bottles; sparkling water for Diane,

and a red can of beer for Jordan, opening them both and pouring.

Ducking behind the curtain again, he was not to be seen again for rather a

long time.

“Cheers,” said Jordan, lifting his glass.

“Le chaim,” said Diane.

They drank and then Jordan closely examined the logo printed

on the can. “Estrella is a beer? We should bring home a six pack for

Estralla.”

“She’ll love it,” said Diane, “when she finds out there’s a beer

named after her in Spain.”

“Can you see those guys at the next table?” Jordan whispered.

“Not really, without staring, and that would be pretty rude.”

The couple at the table by the door were weathered, wrinkled,

hammered by time, and intensely groomed. Hair slicked back, carefully

dressed, looking almost alike. Had they always been so? Or did it happen

gradually after half a century of living together?

“Well, do you think they’re gay?”

“Of course they’re not gay,” said Diane. “That’s a man and wife.”

“Which is which?” said Jordan.

“The one on the other side is the lady, can’t you see her skirt?”

“I can’t see her skirt from where I’m sitting. What I’m wondering

is…is that how we’re going to end up?”

“If we’re lucky. If we live that long.”

Jordan and Diane sat at their table watching the street like

watching a neighborhood soap opera with a storyline developing over

centuries. The police car slowly trawling the narrow lane, pausing often

for the officers to stop and chat with people on their porches and leaning

over their balconies. There was a young man going door to door with a

shoulder bag and he appeared to be selling something, exchanging cash

for receipts. He came into the restaurant and when the cook appeared,

greeted him warmly, handing him a newsletter from his bag. The

cook flipped through the pages, voicing his approval. There was some

negotiation, the cook asking questions, the young man having all the

right answers. They soon came to an agreement and the cook, taking

money out of the till, paid the fellow, received a receipt, and returned to

the kitchen.

Jordan and Diane could hear the sound of patatas bravas dropped

into a fryer and then more of the chopping sounds, and small appliances

whirring.

“How can it take so long to make a sandwich and salad?”

said Jordan. “Does he have to send out for lettuce from the escuela

agricolca?”

“He’s back there right now making that salad for me,” said Diane.

“None of this is prepared ahead of time. This is his business and I bet he

lives upstairs. This is what we’re here for Jordan.”

And when at last their meal arrived it was bueno. Jordan over-

tipped, as usual. When Jordan and Diane left the bocateria the old couple

were still at their table by the door, quietly talking over cups emptied

long ago.

After dinner, Jordan and Diane returned to the hotel and were

both asleep by 8:30. Jet lage hit Jordan just after midnight. He was wide

awake in the bathroom, sitting on a towel on the toilet lid, writing in his

journal.

Living in hotels for two weeks—is that where this story is going?

Traveling is all about spending and what money will get you. Receipts

are talismans. Where the money comes from is another story. Put it

together and what you get is a story of love and travel in an age of terror.

In the morning, they discovered there were wheels on their beds.

Wheeling them together was easy, the only problem was being careful

not to fall through the crack.

Diane was putting on her face and having issues with her hair.

Jordan went downstairs with the camera. A group of about half a dozen

men, sharply dressed, some in dark business suits, some in more casual

professional shirts and slacks, stood just outside the entrance, speaking

easily, most of them smoking cigarettes.

“Scuze,” said Jordan, passing through them. He nodded, smiled,

crossed the street to take a picture. Carefully keeping the men’s group out

of his view finder, Jordan took one picture of the hotel, scuze-ed his way

through the men, and went back upstairs to the room.

“Time for a Safety Break?” said Diane. There was a thin baggy of

fuzzy green stuff and tiny buds spread out on the dresser.

“Oh man,” said Jordan. “Do you think we need that?”

“It’s not a need,” said Diane, “it’s a want. Why not now? I don’t

think Barcelona’s going to be any better place to indulge.”

“Better here than there, better now than later.”

“That’s what you always say.”

Boats were scattered about like toys. A mobile crane on caterpillar tracks labored to

launch a jet ski while another rough beast came rearing up out of the water. Too cold

for swimming, but some few were in there anyway, splashing and shouting about it.