I don’t usually stop and talk to anyone on my daily walk to the village. It’s just a quick visit to correos to check for mail (9 times out of 10 there isn’t any) and straight back, working up a sweat.
There are maybe half a dozen old guys I see regularly, but we simply mumble un saludo and keep going. And there’s one vieja who does a short walk, all on the flat, as far as the polideportivo, and I might exchange a few words with her.
Today, however, I spoke to two old men.
As I left the post office with my nose in a new poetry magazine, I almost literally bumped into un viejo I didn’t recognise. Instinctively, I said hello, only to find his hand thrust at me: “¿me das dinero?”
When I made it clear I wasn’t going to give him any money, he sort of snorted disbelievingly, “¿que no tienes? Well, you’re dressed fine enough!”
OK, it’s summer and I wasn’t wearing that many layers, but his comment came as a bit of a surprise: the total of what I had on probably didn’t cost me twenty quid – including the shoes.
Anyway, it was true that I had but a scant 5€ on me and was en route to the bank to see si quedaba algo in the account at this stage of the month. So, ignoring him, I headed off to do los recados, and then homewards.
Justo antes de llegar a casa, I saw another old chap who’s never done more than grunt at me. He had a handful of greenery which he thrust at me as our paths crossed. “Huele bien ¿no?”
I obligingly stuck my nose into the bunch of mint and agreed, yes, it did smell good.”
“Toma.”
I declined, assuring him I had some growing in my garden. Too true. It grows four foot high and threatens to swamp everything else.
In some ways, it was an oddly balanced morning: two old men thrusting their hands at me – one to demand something I didn’t have, and one to offer something I didn’t want.
don't confuse the narrator 