EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALJanuary 22, 1999
Huerta Santa Maria
Near Galaroza
"What’s the special?" Mariam asks the proprietor of the
old windmill called Meson el Molino. Carlos leans towards me; "It’s too
bad you don’t like meat. This is the best meat restaurant in all of the Sierra de
Aracena".
"We’ve just killed a lamb".
Mariam can’t remember the English word. She’s trying to
translate for my parents, and for Rich. She says, "Baa aaaaaah."
When we came into the big, dark room we could see our breath. In the
corner stands a massive fireplace with a poor chimney. The room is filled with smoke. The
proprietor shovels hot coals from the fire into a large, shallow bowl. The bowl fits into
a recess under the table. Now my pants are melting.
Carlos pulls the tablecloth over his lap and tells me this is how I am
to keep warm during lunch. Indeed, the hot coals, hiding under the table and dangerously
close to my shoes, make the table cozy.
Mariam and Carlos know all about the Sierra de Aracena. It is their
favorite part of Spain. It is considered a lovely retreat for many Sevillians, for its
cooler climate, slow, country pace and walking trails. A few years ago Mariam and Carlos
lived in the nearby town of Fuenteheridos for a month to survey town planning and
development. They studied many of the villages in the Sierra de Aracena.
Javier has joined us for lunch and Carlos helps to fill some pockets of
the Javier mystery. With a Spanish-English translator, we now learn that Santa Maria
had no roof when Javier bought it, five years ago. The walls were sturdy. He didn’t
like the job the builders were doing. He learned to do the tiling and roofing himself.
What is now Javier’s pantry is Santa Maria’s former chapel.
It is a small, sunken room with a stone floor.
Javier built the greenhouse with his son. They share the cacti passion.
My father is pleased at the end of the meal. The proprietor has given
him a cigar. Carlos leads us on a tour of Alajar, which was at one time the most strategic
and important village in the Sierra. There are two churches.
Carlos and Javier step into a wall. I follow them and by the time my
eyes adjust they are leaning on the bar. The dingy room has collected a few wrinkled faces
– men in dusty trousers, smoking.
Behind the bar is a handwritten sign:
ENGLISH SPOKEN
ICH SPRECHE DEUTSCHE
(and one more)
The bartender sees me squinting at the last one. "It’s a
language spoken in Buenos Aires", he says to me, in English. This man, is this
wall-hole, it turns out, has traveled to many places. He is also an expert on local
mushrooms. When we turn to leave, he gives us each an illustrated card, Setas
Comestibles.
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