I was craving a large, filling meal after my journey east by train. I checked into my lodging, which was quaint, but reasonable. I have learned to accept small quarters and wayfarer roommates. The streets here were thin and rugged, many of them filled with uneven water stone, giving ground to the vendors that sold trinkets along the twisted pathways that lead downward from my perched hostel on the city’s hillside. Down below, I took time to walk throughout the town center, and along the Genil River. It was a pleasant evening. I sat on the stone wall built to keep fools out of the wet. The sun set early this time of year. The sky turned purple, then wrapped itself around the lovers that watched it.
I found an Irish pub in town, figuring they would have substantial portions of meat and potato dishes. I found an empty barstool near the front door, and ordered a pint of Guinness. I was disappointed when the bar keep told me the kitchen was closed, and so I drank my frothy beer with good pace, so that I could continue my hunt for a gorging. I should have realized an Irish pub in the middle of Spain should not have been my first option for food, but maybe I was seeking a sort of comfort away from home. I moved on to a tapas bar and met a man from London, after he had heard my American accent and worked his way into my conversation with the bartender, then slid down a few seats toward me, to get closer to ear shot. His name was Jack, and he ordered a round of dark beers for us on his tab. The Brit was a firefighter back home, and was in Granada on leave, studying the Spanish language here for a few weeks.
“Why Spanish?” I asked.
Not sure really. I guess it is something I always wanted to do, but never did. So now I’m doing it,” Jack said, still thinking about it.
“I understand. That’s noble.”
Jack nodded and drank the remainder of his beer, then flagged down the bartender with his right thumb raised out, wiggling it from side to side.
“Two more, thanks,” he said.
“And how’s it coming along?”
“What’s that?”
“The Spanish,” I asked.
“Terribly, but my teacher is extremely attractive so that keeps things interesting, right?”
“Maybe you’re having a tough time concentrating?” I asked him.
“I potentially worry about nothing, and enjoy all of it,” Jack said, in a confident manner, as if he has said this phrase over and over, to those wanderers that he would meet randomly in places such as this. The comment stayed with me for a moment. Then I put it in my pocket.
We talked awhile longer over more pints and tapas. I told Jack that he was a comical fella, and reminded me of a famous British comedian, to which Jack replied,
“He’s an egotistical twat,”
I explained to Jack that you more or less have to have an ego to be a comedian, coupled with extreme bouts of depression. He agreed. I told a couple jokes from the famous comedian’s repertoire. Jack did not like my London accent when I attempted one.
We made our way to a couple other tapas bars, eventually stumbling upon an establishment that was a local favorite according to Jack. It was small and hidden down an alleyway, far from the roaming tourist’s nose. The beer was fairly cheap here in Granada, and the tapas were outstanding. We mainly ate seafood, ranging in various types of morsels from the Alboran Sea to the south. We had a good time and talked of country, job, and enjoying one’s self in places of travel. Jack wanted to meet out again tonight after a quick siesta. That is when I realized it was only 6:30pm. Spain’s ways were unusual to me in regards to their eating and drinking habits connected to unorthodox timetables, but I imagined it was something I could easily get used to with enough practice. I told Jack I may or may not come out again this evening, as I had a long day of adventure beginning at sunrise. He told me to meet at a place called El Bar, a couple blocks from here at 9:00pm if I decided to join. We shook hands and walked in opposite directions. I would not meet him again.
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Potentially Worry About Nothing