Barcelona; August 17 2012
There is a man who runs the store adjacent to the Escuela Mediteránneo. Every morning I go into the store to buy a 1.5 litre bottle of water, to be sure that I remain hydrated in this fucking heat. Every morning we have brushed paths, barely acknowledging each other; he, refusing to speak to me in Spanish, instead repeating every day the price of the water in English: 75 cents (wait—there are horses passing by on la Rambla; something alive, something living! I’ve never seen that here before).
Today I am wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of the yoga studio I attended in Istanbul, Cihangir Yoga.
He sparks, he crackles. I didn’t expect it. I am still groggy and I struggle to get up and run after the ray of light he throws:
“Tu camiseta es de India?”
“Pero el imagen es de India”
“Ah, si, Ganesha?”
“Si, es de India”
“Y qué significa la figura de Ganesha en India?”
And suddenly he becomes a poet; he speaks of toenails that remember every kilometer travelled, toenails that embody the landscape through memory of passage. And how great are these creatures—how strong, yet how tranquil—qué fuerte, pero qué tranquilo.
A balance; a grounded nomad; a sage.
Thank you for the spark, Ganesha. Thank you for the point of departure, from which we can perhaps make more of the mere monetary exchange.