July 3, 2006--Monday On Mallorca: A-Twitter
No surprise--the town is still a-twitter about the pocketbook.
First a few facts since aspects of this remain an unsolved mystery—the Livseys went to the Guardia Civil in Andratx, the larger town of the port in the foothills of the fearsome Tramuntana Mountains to recover the pocketbook; as expected all was intact—including the cash; also as no surprise the police did not have the name of the person who found it and turned it in—who cares; they did though have a phone number and gave it to the Livseys, who were eager to thank and reward him; the phone was disconnected; and we do in fact know it was a “him.” This was all that was and is known.
And of course, knowing only this and not the essential more is what keeps us all going.
It is not as if a lot hasn’t happened in the larger world and here since last Monday—the killings continue in Iraq; Israel appears to be reinvading Gaza; President Bush and Japan’s Prime Minister hopped onboard Air Force One and gallivanted off to Memphis to visit Elvis at Graceland; the World Cup continues—the Brits here are moping because they were pathetic and eliminated, and a few days earlier Spain, equally pathetic, lost and a general sense of the kind of melancholy and the tragic sense of life that exists at its best in Spain, nurtured for centuries, and which only an Miguel Unamuno can write about, that special pall descended on this country and island; and for those such as I, who try to keep up with what is going on back in the States, we know there has been pervasive flooding along the east coast, the Yankees are floundering, but the Mets continue to roll along.
So again, a lot has happened during the past week, but nothing to compare with the attempt to find, thank, and reward the young man (more about that in a moment) who found Rita Livsey’s handbag.
Since Rona and I somehow were placed in the middle of this—we know both those who witnessed the recovery of the bag and saw the man who gave it to the staff at the Cappuccino Café and the Livseys. And I suspect because we are the only Americans here, not enough in number to be reviled for our hegemonic preemptions but rather admired for our stereotypical can-do spirit--they should only know the effects of the sun and vino on that! For these reasons at least, since we found ourselves in this middle position we have allowed ourselves to slip into taking some responsibility for ferreting out the remaining facts. (Notice how so much of existence here is not just lived in the passive voice but even occurs passively.) Thus we have been interviewing people to see what they can tell us about the hero.
We have been careful to do this investigating early in the day, knowing full well that alcohol, even the finest, will have its way with the witnesses, and of course the investigators. Here is what we have found thus far—
As I mentioned, he is a he; he is rather short (actually rather tall); he is quite young, no more than 25 (really, he looks a lot more as if he is in his 40s, or even older); he is quite fair for a Spaniard, with long blonde hair (in fact he has very short, very dark hair); he is covered with tattoos (definitely not a one); and he speaks excellent, “educated” English (hardly a word of it, just Spanish, thank you).
Obviously we are not being very helpful. And since we leave later today for Barcelona and then for the States on Thursday and need to begin to get prepared for that (mainly this means getting ready to deal with anxiety, responsibility, and all our waiting mail) we are feeling that we have somehow failed our friends here.
They, though, do not seem upset with us—that the Yanks have let them down. Actually, as things become more confusing, thanks to our ineptitude, they seem increasingly delighted. This delight does not appear to be mean-spirited, the result on any latent anti-whatever.
I suspect this is really more about retaining the mystery and holding onto the uncertainty than resolving anything. Maybe all the conflicting “testimony” is not about befuddlement or the Rashomon Effect, where everyone has a very different perspective on the same “reality.” Perhaps they are having fun with us, knowing that no matter how much we like to believe we are assimilated here, living here, we are still just passing through. That, though, feels a little cruel, even though they would be right about us.
Maybe they are merely passing along a final message before we depart—relax. It’s just life. And be sure to return.
We will. We’ll be back!
First a few facts since aspects of this remain an unsolved mystery—the Livseys went to the Guardia Civil in Andratx, the larger town of the port in the foothills of the fearsome Tramuntana Mountains to recover the pocketbook; as expected all was intact—including the cash; also as no surprise the police did not have the name of the person who found it and turned it in—who cares; they did though have a phone number and gave it to the Livseys, who were eager to thank and reward him; the phone was disconnected; and we do in fact know it was a “him.” This was all that was and is known.
And of course, knowing only this and not the essential more is what keeps us all going.
It is not as if a lot hasn’t happened in the larger world and here since last Monday—the killings continue in Iraq; Israel appears to be reinvading Gaza; President Bush and Japan’s Prime Minister hopped onboard Air Force One and gallivanted off to Memphis to visit Elvis at Graceland; the World Cup continues—the Brits here are moping because they were pathetic and eliminated, and a few days earlier Spain, equally pathetic, lost and a general sense of the kind of melancholy and the tragic sense of life that exists at its best in Spain, nurtured for centuries, and which only an Miguel Unamuno can write about, that special pall descended on this country and island; and for those such as I, who try to keep up with what is going on back in the States, we know there has been pervasive flooding along the east coast, the Yankees are floundering, but the Mets continue to roll along.
So again, a lot has happened during the past week, but nothing to compare with the attempt to find, thank, and reward the young man (more about that in a moment) who found Rita Livsey’s handbag.
Since Rona and I somehow were placed in the middle of this—we know both those who witnessed the recovery of the bag and saw the man who gave it to the staff at the Cappuccino Café and the Livseys. And I suspect because we are the only Americans here, not enough in number to be reviled for our hegemonic preemptions but rather admired for our stereotypical can-do spirit--they should only know the effects of the sun and vino on that! For these reasons at least, since we found ourselves in this middle position we have allowed ourselves to slip into taking some responsibility for ferreting out the remaining facts. (Notice how so much of existence here is not just lived in the passive voice but even occurs passively.) Thus we have been interviewing people to see what they can tell us about the hero.
We have been careful to do this investigating early in the day, knowing full well that alcohol, even the finest, will have its way with the witnesses, and of course the investigators. Here is what we have found thus far—
As I mentioned, he is a he; he is rather short (actually rather tall); he is quite young, no more than 25 (really, he looks a lot more as if he is in his 40s, or even older); he is quite fair for a Spaniard, with long blonde hair (in fact he has very short, very dark hair); he is covered with tattoos (definitely not a one); and he speaks excellent, “educated” English (hardly a word of it, just Spanish, thank you).
Obviously we are not being very helpful. And since we leave later today for Barcelona and then for the States on Thursday and need to begin to get prepared for that (mainly this means getting ready to deal with anxiety, responsibility, and all our waiting mail) we are feeling that we have somehow failed our friends here.
They, though, do not seem upset with us—that the Yanks have let them down. Actually, as things become more confusing, thanks to our ineptitude, they seem increasingly delighted. This delight does not appear to be mean-spirited, the result on any latent anti-whatever.
I suspect this is really more about retaining the mystery and holding onto the uncertainty than resolving anything. Maybe all the conflicting “testimony” is not about befuddlement or the Rashomon Effect, where everyone has a very different perspective on the same “reality.” Perhaps they are having fun with us, knowing that no matter how much we like to believe we are assimilated here, living here, we are still just passing through. That, though, feels a little cruel, even though they would be right about us.
Maybe they are merely passing along a final message before we depart—relax. It’s just life. And be sure to return.
We will. We’ll be back!
posted by Steven Zwerling at
3:09 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home