Late last night we saw an old lady in an angloindian dress, carrying a plastic bag
like a handbag, poke fastidiously at some garbage bags beside a footpath.
Today, walking up to the church I was attacked by some herbs and a lady
handed me one, reminded me of aunty Molly and proceeded to bless me thoroughly.
I don't know what she said because it was Spanish.
Then she leaned back on her left hip and asked me to bring out the cash.
I said I had none and smiled at her helpfully. She grimaced, took back her investment
and left me with the smell of myrtle on my hands.
On the cobbled street corners old men with dirty beards are slouching
with dogs in dirty jackets and a can out ahead of them.
A man came to our lunch table, left a lighter and a note saying
his wife had an awful disease and he no job and they two kids.
He put one set at each table, came back after a bit and told us
we could keep the lighter, but we politely refused so, practically, he took it.
We felt like benevolent ex-colonials. My father took a poverty picture,
We said don't be gruesome, he said they do it all the time. My mother melted neither for
worst nor most skilful, transnationally consistent and no post-colonial ego at all.
Down another street is a woman all in black, broken voice and heart together, wailing.
Fifty metres on, a chirpy fellow with an accordion, on a steel chair, making us feel better.
My sister gave him some money to patronise the arts.
There are impersonators in the squares and busy night streets—the Angel of mercy,
and Grim reaper are favorites—and my father stood a long time figuring out a levitator,
refusing to see what makes him trick. We never saw any children beg.
Walking back at night, we passed a man looking through dustbins like a buffet.
The next morning a Bangladeshi immigrant will tell us that with so many
thousand euros paid to be here, he has no intention of going back.
like a handbag, poke fastidiously at some garbage bags beside a footpath.
Today, walking up to the church I was attacked by some herbs and a lady
handed me one, reminded me of aunty Molly and proceeded to bless me thoroughly.
I don't know what she said because it was Spanish.
Then she leaned back on her left hip and asked me to bring out the cash.
I said I had none and smiled at her helpfully. She grimaced, took back her investment
and left me with the smell of myrtle on my hands.
On the cobbled street corners old men with dirty beards are slouching
with dogs in dirty jackets and a can out ahead of them.
A man came to our lunch table, left a lighter and a note saying
his wife had an awful disease and he no job and they two kids.
He put one set at each table, came back after a bit and told us
we could keep the lighter, but we politely refused so, practically, he took it.
We felt like benevolent ex-colonials. My father took a poverty picture,
We said don't be gruesome, he said they do it all the time. My mother melted neither for
worst nor most skilful, transnationally consistent and no post-colonial ego at all.
Down another street is a woman all in black, broken voice and heart together, wailing.
Fifty metres on, a chirpy fellow with an accordion, on a steel chair, making us feel better.
My sister gave him some money to patronise the arts.
There are impersonators in the squares and busy night streets—the Angel of mercy,
and Grim reaper are favorites—and my father stood a long time figuring out a levitator,
refusing to see what makes him trick. We never saw any children beg.
Walking back at night, we passed a man looking through dustbins like a buffet.
The next morning a Bangladeshi immigrant will tell us that with so many
thousand euros paid to be here, he has no intention of going back.
