I was not even halfway to my destination when the clouds over the Caribbean swelled with rain. If I turned around, I could easily make it back home before the downpour. I decided to go forth anyway. I managed to park my bicycle right as the drops began to fall, and upon walking into the cafe, I felt like I was back in Northern California. There were chimes, woven goods, handmade necklaces, natural balms, and so forth. As I wrote in my journal, it was a woo-woo new agey place. It was also the only place in town to offer a varied vegetarian menu, which is why I was there.
The proprietor didn't look overly thrilled to have a guest to feed, but she cooked anyway. She made one hell of a mushroom omelet with eggs plucked from the chickens clucking just outside the screen door. I was eating when a man, maybe late 50s, walked up toward the building. He squinted at me through the screened-in windows, then stared as though he recognized me, then entered. The woman’s husband. He had a gentle but intense air about him.
While they talked, I kept eating my omelet and homemade bread. The woman had to leave for an appointment, so her husband took over and walked toward the table. “Ça va aujourd’hui?” he asked.
"J’vais bien," I responded. I don’t know how he knew that I spoke crappy French.
We began a discussion of Quebeçois vs French French, which somehow bled into me asking if he thought I really needed to take the oral antibiotics prescribed by the health clinic. "For a foot injury?" he said. "I wouldn’t, personally."
I agreed and explained how I was clumsy and accident-prone. And this turned into the kind of medical confessional favored mostly by the elderly. I told him about the broken foot and the lumpy breast.
He gave me another intense stare. "Were all of these on your left side?" he asked.
Yes. As was the slice-and-diced toe.
"Interesting," he said. A beat, a tentative glance, then: "Have you lost a man in your life recently?"
Cue the waterworks. I managed to refrain from full-blown sobbing, but I wasn't expecting the question, and so I held my breath and blinked back tears. I filled him in. Then he talked about the Mayan calendar and how the transformational leadup to 2012 is already happening. How we’re supposed to go to a higher spiritual plane. He said that those of us who haven't already started evolving are too late. "You're going to be happy," he said. “You just have to weather the storm first."
Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. My eggs were gone. The wife was back. I paid and pedaled down muddy streets.
All of this happened a little over a week ago, during which time I also injured my left hand. I'm not one to go for mysticism, and I don’t believe that this guy has secret psychic powers or anything. I will say that I went in expecting nothing more than a late lunch and left with a lot to think about. Like I said before, it was a woo-woo new agey place.
The proprietor didn't look overly thrilled to have a guest to feed, but she cooked anyway. She made one hell of a mushroom omelet with eggs plucked from the chickens clucking just outside the screen door. I was eating when a man, maybe late 50s, walked up toward the building. He squinted at me through the screened-in windows, then stared as though he recognized me, then entered. The woman’s husband. He had a gentle but intense air about him.
While they talked, I kept eating my omelet and homemade bread. The woman had to leave for an appointment, so her husband took over and walked toward the table. “Ça va aujourd’hui?” he asked.
"J’vais bien," I responded. I don’t know how he knew that I spoke crappy French.
We began a discussion of Quebeçois vs French French, which somehow bled into me asking if he thought I really needed to take the oral antibiotics prescribed by the health clinic. "For a foot injury?" he said. "I wouldn’t, personally."
I agreed and explained how I was clumsy and accident-prone. And this turned into the kind of medical confessional favored mostly by the elderly. I told him about the broken foot and the lumpy breast.
He gave me another intense stare. "Were all of these on your left side?" he asked.
Yes. As was the slice-and-diced toe.
"Interesting," he said. A beat, a tentative glance, then: "Have you lost a man in your life recently?"
Cue the waterworks. I managed to refrain from full-blown sobbing, but I wasn't expecting the question, and so I held my breath and blinked back tears. I filled him in. Then he talked about the Mayan calendar and how the transformational leadup to 2012 is already happening. How we’re supposed to go to a higher spiritual plane. He said that those of us who haven't already started evolving are too late. "You're going to be happy," he said. “You just have to weather the storm first."
Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. My eggs were gone. The wife was back. I paid and pedaled down muddy streets.
All of this happened a little over a week ago, during which time I also injured my left hand. I'm not one to go for mysticism, and I don’t believe that this guy has secret psychic powers or anything. I will say that I went in expecting nothing more than a late lunch and left with a lot to think about. Like I said before, it was a woo-woo new agey place.
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