 In mid-April I was sitting in the Streets End Bar on Avenue de Horatio. An ice cream I had melted and ran down through my fingers. I sat on the bar stool wondering what to do next. At that moment, Ludo, a friend from my days as a Parisian youth, came into the bar looking a little disgruntled. “I spied a dedication to Albert Nobel, the inventor of dynamite, this instrument of death, and then when Albert died the Nobel Peace Prize came into being. The irony. Know your enemy,” he said. “He might just be that man across the bar.”
“Ludo, the man across the bar is stuffing his face with a bocadillo. I don’t think he has the time to be anybody’s enemy. Look at him, he’s only wearing one sock.” The man was clearly in need of assistance; half of the sandwich he was eating ended up on the ground and the other half ended up on his shirt.
“I wouldn’t count on a tip,” Ludo said jokingly.
We were in a run-down bar in Burgos, Spain, waiting on our friend Don Símón. Don Símón had promised to return with news of a caravan of oranges making its way west toward the market in Valencia. There, we could catch a cargo ship headed toward the Dalmatian Coast, Croatia, where we would visit the city of Split and dive in the Adriatic.
We hadn’t seen Don Símón in a few days. It was the week of Semana Santa, the ascension of Christ, Easter, and for Don Símón this was a time of absolute penance. This struck me as odd because one time in Segovia, Spain, Ludo and Don Símón got into a heated argument about the existence of God. Ludo insisted he could prove the existence of God using the proofs of Descartes and a spoon. Don Símón was adamant. “God does not exist. If God exists why is there war and hate? Why is there poverty and pain? Why do good things happen to bad people? Like my uncle Mancebeo. He has three women, no job and yet he always manages to win at gin rummy.”
Having been in the bar for more than three hours, we came to know the bartender, Manuel, pretty well. Every drink he poured came with a joke. After three or four drinks the jokes actually began to sound funny.
“Go ahead and tell me a joke now,” Manuel said.
“I don’t know any jokes.”
“No! Tell me a joke; a good American joke,” he now said with the authority of a bulldozer.
“Seriously, I don’t know any jokes.”
“I know a joke,” a grim old man holding a glass of whiskey said as he leaned over the bar to prepare his delivery.
“José, the only jokes you know are about a 68-year-old woman and a large vibrating egg,” Manuel said as he turned and looked at Ludo, who smiled.
“I know one.” Ludo, grinning, went on with his joke. “At a prominent Parisian brothel, the madam opened the ornate gilded door to see an elderly Jewish man. His clothes were disheveled and he looked needy. ‘Can I help you?’ the madam asked. ‘I'm here for Natalie,’ the old man replied. ‘Sir, Natalie’s one of our most expensive ladies, perhaps someone else—’ ‘No, I must see Natalie.’ Just then Natalie appeared and announced to the old man she charged $1000 per visit. The man never blinked and reached into his pocket and handed her ten $100 bills. The two went up to a room for an hour whereupon the man calmly left. The next night he appeared again demanding Natalie. Natalie explained no one had ever come back two nights in a row and there were no discounts, the price remained $1000. Again the old man took out ten $100 bills, the two went up to the room and he calmly left an hour later.
“When he showed up the third consecutive night, no one could believe it. Again he handed Natalie ten $100 bills and up to the room they went. At the end of the hour, Natalie questioned the old man. ‘No one's ever used my services three nights in a row,’ she said. ‘Where are you from?’ ‘I'm from Vienna.’ ‘Really?’ replied Natalie. ‘I have a sister who lives there.’ ‘Yes, I know,’ said the old man. ‘She gave me $3000 to give to you.’”
“That’s a good joke.” José looked at Manuel in agreement.
At that moment the glass door to the Streets End Bar opened and in walked Don Símón.
He looked refreshed. “I have just spent the last three hours in confession. I feel this great weight to have been lifted from my shoulders. Embrace life,” he said with the optimism and zest of a young child.
“Though I have some bad news,” Don Símón pulled a chair to the bar and ordered a café con leche from Manuel. “That caravan of oranges is no longer heading west towards Valencia; it will go south through Toledo to Seville and finally to Cadiz.”
“Cadiz, that would be great if we wanted to get to Morocco and ride a camel across the Sahara but we want to see the blue of the Adriatic, dive for octopus, and drink Ozujsko, the Croatian brew.”
“It’s all well, though, you can still catch that ship from Valencia seeing that you make it there by Friday,” Manuel assured us. “That gives you three days.”
Waiting for the 4 o’clock train to Valencia, which would take us through Madrid, we met a young German named Nicolai. “Here, try some of this.” Nicolai offered us his hand.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s seaweed.”
“Seaweed?” Ludo questioned.
“Yeah, seaweed. It’s good for your health.”
“Where’s it from?”
“It’s from Germany.”
“They have seaweed in Germany?” I asked.
“Yeah. Go on now.” After taking a few bites off the seaweed I began to feel nauseous.
“What’s wrong?” Nicolai questioned.
“I’m just not used to it.”
“That’s all right,” Nicolai chuckled.
“How long have you been eating raw plant material?” I asked.
“For five months now.”
“Wow.”
Four o’clock came and so did the train to Valencia. Ludo, Nicolai (who was on his way to Madrid) and I boarded and took our seats. The train cars were old, which made for a slow ride through the countryside. We arrived in Madrid around midnight. The train was continuing to Valencia so we said our farewells to Nicolai, reclined our seats and tried to sleep through the night.
The rain was hard-hitting and we just managed to duck into a small panadería outside the train station without getting wet. Exhausted from our 15-hour journey, we felt it a good idea to have some breakfast before going on. In the corner of the café sat a man in a tuxedo. He was drenched, head in his hands, and wore no shoes. He reminded me of a penguin and I immediately became aware that this penguin had fallen fowl of the flock and succumbed to life as a drunk.
“We should make our way,” Ludo said finishing the last of his café con leche.
“Yeah, we should. We have a boat to catch.”
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