Owen and Nancy were the first people that I met in San Miguel.I was just finishing up breakfast at Café de la Parroquia, on a crisp winter day. While I was waiting for my bill I could see them eyeing my table in the sun. So I asked if they’d like to sit down with me while I waited. Thus ensued a lively conversation where the two of them were gracious enough to give this newcomer the lay of the San Miguel land. One of their pearls of wisdom was the “. . . best internet café in town, Café Etc.”
At the time I was renting a crappy little casita in the bowels of Colonia San Antonio. The casita was conveniently wedged between a furniture factory and a day-care. Therefore, I spent as little time as possible at home and found myself frequently at Café Etc. Nearly every day I’d run into Owen and Nancy and if not Nancy, at least Owen, who would always offer to share his table for lunch.
As my friends will attest, I have very little trouble talking about myself. This didn’t seem to bother Owen. In fact, he’d pose question after question that encouraged me to prattle on.
One day two things became clear; 1. Owen hadn’t asked at least one pertinent question, and 2. He had no trouble speaking precisely what was on his mind, without beating around the bush.
He began to tell me a story about a woman he’d met, with whom he was very impressed. She apparently lived in the campo, growing her own garden, was very self-sufficient and musical as well. “I’m not saying that you should marry her,” he said. “But you might want to get together for sex or something.”
I’m sure I hesitated. I also didn’t volunteer the information that I had not provided those services for women in over 20 years. I think I said something like, “That would be nice, thank you for thinking of me, I look forward to meeting her.” (I also felt relatively safe because I figured from what he described, there was a good chance she was a lesbian anyway.)
Over time I guess he either figured things out or someone clued him in, because at lunch one day I ordered the club sandwich. Owen said, “I like that sandwich but it is too big. I can’t get my mouth around it.” When I took a full sized bite he said, “Oh, you wouldn’t have a problem, would you.” I was speechless. I think I pretended that I didn’t hear him.
And to a friend of mine who is from a wealthy family, I overheard Owen say, “Of course you don’t understand. Your problem is that you’re just too darn rich!”
I wish that my father could have lived long enough to meet Owen. They would have been fast friends. I can picture them sitting together in the Jardin, discussing philosophy, the merits of various religions, politics and relationships. Two wise men, gentle souls who saw things, lived things and came through it all as better people. Two men who could be moved to tears out of pride for someone else’s accomplishments. Two men who never tied of learning or listening.
Nancy, please know that Rodrigo and I are here for you. We will all miss him, but no one as much as you, the person with whom he shared his life and for whom he was so grateful and so proud.
And to Owen, my friend, I look forward to seeing you in the next life. I may need you to hook me up. Only this time, try to get the gender right.
3 comments:
Your dad was a kind and gentle man with a twinkle in his eye. Owen sounds like a character that he would have loved.
(The sandwich story made me snort)
Wiping away tears, and I did not even get to know him until now, through your writing. So sorry for the world's and your's and Nancy's loss.
I raise my glass, or tequila shotglass, to your dad, to Owen, to you and to Nancy.
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