In my youth, the old man in the corner house on my block never opened his curtains. All the kids in the neighborhood feared him, his dark, scary house and, most of all, his hermit ways. What went on behind those closed curtains was the subject of great speculation and a topic of many a lazy summer afternoon conversation in Mulberry Grove, Illinois.
After I grew up and met people from other towns, I found out that our Mr. Dogeater,
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The rhythmic chanting issued forth from a nearby speaker and settled down on our conversation, providing the somber atmosphere that the occasion deserved. The discussion, as we sat on a friend’s porch in a tiny village in the Pampanga Province of the Philippines that Maundy Thursday, centered around the crucifixions and self-flagellants that we had come to see.
The chanting, known as The Passion because it is the reading of the betrayal, trial and death of Jesus, begins at 12
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Low hanging lights illuminated the small, dark arena. The wooden bleachers were full to bursting with unsavory characters yelling a continuous stream of unintelligible words punctuated by intimidating hand gestures. Anyone not carrying a knife, and willing to use it, was asking to be relieved of all his money. Bets were made and welched on. The welchers were brutally murdered while the crowd approvingly watched. “He should have known better than to make a bet he couldn’t keep,” their inaction
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Today, as I sat in my apartment in Barcelona, something out the window caught my eye. I saw a little boy running away from his mother. The fact that this was happening on the sidewalk of the very busy street on which I live gave me cause for concern.
This boy, who couldn’t have been more than four-years old, appeared to be looking back at his mother as he ran almost daring her to come chase him. His mother appeared
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One of the great joys of traveling in foreign countries is seeing the differences in cultures; sometimes nuanced, sometimes vast. At times, however, noting the similarities of the local culture and my culture provides a sense of comfort, a sense of belonging.
I felt this kindred spirit recently with a wee lass on a bus to Viña del Mar, Chile. The girl, who was about three years-old, was rummaging through her right nostril with her right middle finger. She inserted
…I lived in Santiago, Chile for a time. Every day that I was home, a man would walk down Avenida Suecia blowing an annoying, harmonica-like whistle and pulling a box on wheels. The tune was incessant and the man’s gait methodical.
He nearly drove me insane. Worse, I had no idea why he kept making that racket.
It was rather apparent that the man was trying to attract business, but, because I never saw anyone even speak to him, let
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