I Need Help

I took a night bus to Cadiz where a stain glass explorer named C. Colon sailed west dear Nina searching for gold, importing greed and converting heathen slaves with persecution and misery.

It was difficult raising funds from a skeptical king and queen intent on expanding their empire.

My inner child, poet and literary outlaw spent six days in the San Francisco Hotel establishing geographical bearings enjoying bistro tapas, meat, cheese, bread, fruit and veggies from the central market or Mercado. It was a 30-year flashback after the kissing the army goodbye when I passed through carrying a pack Jack.

I walked into the tourism office off De Dios Plaza. I got to the point with in and out dialogue.

“I need help.”

Three little English words said everything.

Patricia helped me make some calls. After settling in with a Romani family I visited her to say thanks. She said, “You know, we get a lot of people in our office, all nationalities looking for something and while most of them are nice some are really terrible.”

“I understand. Kind ones are a blessing. I’ve met some disconnected neurotic people on life’s road. Too many are rude and not sensitive to diverse cultures. Others fall into two distinct groups. The whiners and the complainers.”

“Yes,” she laughed, “that’s a good one. The reason I decided to help you was the way you just came in and said, ‘I need help.’ It was refreshing.”

“I’m fortunate,” I said, “seeing the challenges. My limited Spanish wouldn’t help me find a room. That’s why I came to see you.”

“It was the way you did it,” said Patricia.

“A three-year child taught me those three little words. I really appreciated your help. I’ll be back.”

My room with meals for thirty days was $500.

Amelia was an overweight diabetic who ate extremely fast, her husband Jesus resembled Ichabod Crane and son Janus, 20, was a mental case. He studied engineering in school and lay around the flat watching soccer on television with the volume at full blast or playing computer games.

His father hustled cheap scarves along chipped yellow walls outside the Mercado across from his local bar where Amelia nursed her daily wine.

Another resident was Dortmund, a gay German flight attendant for ABC airline working the South American circuit. He had a room for a month studying Spanish with a private teacher from 9-12.

“It’s great being here, no one knows where I am and I like it like that. Nothing to do but study.” He carried a cell phone. One day we met in an Internet cafe. “Hi Dortmund. How’s it going?”

“Great. I’m on-line with a guy in Germany. This is a great chat room. We’re talking about getting together when my studies are finished.”

Dortmund spent a lot of time chatting with guys on-line and looking at his mobile. The city was a relaxed place for his midnight encounters as bars and cafes spilled fictional people into romance novels. He was overjoyed. Spanish was a language of lust. Exotic perfume. Forbidden fruit hung heavy and ripe for the picking.

My Cadiz room was small, noisy and perfect for completing a sentence. My life sentence was a metaphor savoring my time on Earth. Living on the edge has the advantage of being sharper there.

There is no there there.

ART

Adventure, Risk, Transformation - A Memoir

A writer in Burma.