[The writing prompts for today were twofold. Start a story with an apology. End a story with a question. I did both.]
"Sorry"
She heard the apology but wasn't sure what it was for. In this almost stranger's kitchen the old man moved to and fro. Outside the world crawled. Looking out the kitchen's window into the apartment block’s courtyard, she saw small drops of rain steadily falling. Everything was wet. The sky was grey. The rain muted the pastel colors of all the buildings.
A loose apron hung around the man’s neck. There was a colorful picture of the Barcelos' cock and “Bon Dia” stitched on the front of the dangling garment. Could there be any clearer sign that she had arrived in Portugal? Gray haired and wearing wire rim glasses this man, her host, roamed the kitchen. He held a heavy pan. Last night when he made her a welcome to Lisboa grilled cheese and prosciutto sandwich he told her it was purchased from the neighborhood ‘fine’ cookware store.
She wondered if those were John Lennon style glasses he was wearing. However, given she had paid scant attention to the Beatles, they were so before her time, she couldn't tell. The pan appeared an ideal vessel for cooking an omelette, except for its weight. The man cracked the eggs and mixed them with two ounces of milk in a coffee cup sitting beside the gas stove. Taking the cheese and ham from the refrigerator he diced them on a small wooden cutting board to sprinkle on the cooking omelette. He pulled out a spidery red pepper and used an arched eyebrow to silently ask if he should dice it and throw it in. Just as silently with a left to right to left head shake she told him no.
"I have to apologize to you. This will not be the prettiest of omelettes. In all the cooking shows you see the chef easily flipping the omelette. Try as I might I cannot do that in this pan. I will simply have to use my spatula and sort of flop the eggs over. The taste won’t be any different, but on the whole it won’t be pretty. This concoction will be somewhere between an omelette and scrambled eggs. Are you OK with that?"
The old man’s guest at this breakfast table nodded in agreement that it would be OK. Beggars can't be choosers. She was not paying for breakfast nor for her room. Her host, the man preparing her the first meal of the day, was putting her up gratis for a couple of nights on this leg of her trip to the Iberian Peninsula. The gent walking about the kitchen was actually a friend of her very close friend, well her mentor back in the States. Apparently the two men shared a house in graduate school. When she asked for stories of life in the house, both claimed allegiance to a secret oath never to reveal what went on in the purple house they called Marvin.
She believed the old man seemed safe. He was married and had adult kids. There were family pictures everywhere. His wife was finishing up a trip to Barcelona and would return tomorrow. He had said a couple of times, “I think you'll actually like my wife better than me. She is way more interesting than I am. She knows all the hidden spots to hit for the best pastries. She knows where the pocket museums are. And she is more polite than me." Adding to her sense of safety her room could be locked from the inside.
Walking to and from the stove, the refrigerator, the coffee grinder, he kept talking."You know the asshole in chief made a speech last night. Obviously, I didn’t listen to it because it came on at one in the morning here. Even if I'd been in the same time zone, I would not have listened to that doofus. After breakfast, I may look at the Post to see if there was anything earth-shattering that we exiles need to know.
One of the most delightful things about living in the EU is that you can turn off the US news cycle for a day or two." Having said this he looked at her with sad eyes. His sad eyes were clearly those of an old exile running from his country's turn toward madness. "You may not have a country to go back to when your three months are done. If need be you can always stay here until the end of 90 days Schengen will tolerate you for."
The kitchen smells became more delightful. With care he placed a bottle of fresh squeezed orange juice in front of her. Pushing the lovely pulp filled juice in her direction he retrieved a small clear glass from an upper cabinet, and put it next to the bottle. He turned back toward the gas stove.
Facing away from her he spoke again. "I know you’re keen to get the rest of your travel underway, but it’s going to rain for the next four days in a circle 200 miles in any direction. If you stay here you can dry off in this warm kitchen after your daily explorations. Trust me there are palaces and museums enough to fill four days. On the other hand you could head out into the mud of the countryside and be miserable. At least I think you’ll be miserable."
Truth be told, she had weighed the same considerations. Being a friend of a friend of her host, she decided not to make the first overture to extend her stay. She was more than glad he offered.
Her host moved the spatula in the large pan to push the edges of the omelette in as it warmed and started to congeal. Looking directly at her he continued talking. "If you head west you’re heading to a small town in a quasi desert. In summer it’s so damn hot. In summer you only go out to see the sites before 10 in the morning and after six at night. But it's winter and the rainy season and so you could putter around all day in that gray and brown cobblestone landscape. I mean what’s really over that way except for some big rocks sitting in a muddy field that are older than Stonehenge and a chapel filled with hundreds of skulls? The way I see it your real choices are between old wet stone churches. If you ride over there you get to peek into one with skulls. If you stay here you can wander through 20 skull-less Igejas."
The whole time he talked, her host was in motion. He bent over the stove, moving the pan about on the burner. Pulling some boiled potatoes from the ‘fridge he asked if he wanted some hash browns. She shook her head no. Back they went.He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. He clicked on an American-style drip coffee maker. He wasn’t a whirling dervish, but he was focused in his movements. She heard the toast pop up and the smell of the browned bread mixed with the smell of the brewing coffee and it was delightful.
She pondered what he had said. The trip out to the city with the bone chapel would require either hopping on the train or grabbing a bus and wasting a couple of hours. Doing that on a rainy day wouldn’t be too bad, but she wasn’t sure of her accommodations when she got there. There was a nice bed and good food right here. She thought it might make sense to stay here another day, maybe two given he had extended the offer.
She was about to say she would stay an extra night when her host pulled the full pot of coffee out of where it had been brewing. "Heads up. It’s a blend from Cabo Verde. Bet you've never had that before. Are you up to visiting another palace today?"
"Are you coming with me when I go?" she asked, indicating with a question she was not planning to leave his hospitality, at least not today.
