Reflections on Alcalá by a visitor from abroad

An American gentleman penned these lines during a recent stay in Alcalá de los Gazules, and has kindly allowed me to share them with you.

Gazpacho

The social climbers won't leave simple fare alone;

have somehow to corrupt and claim it as their own,

endow it with Privilege and Prestige,

attempt to slide it out of reach.

They've taken guacamole, dead easy and good

(ripe avocado, chopped onion, squeeze lemon,

dash salt, mash with fork) to come up with versions

that hinge on this or that:

a blender, paprika, sour cream, capers...

till fancy and high-strung,

it's no longer for just anyone.

They've done all they can to appropriate gazpacho.

The next time you pay through the nose for a bowl,

take time to reflect that as good a gazpacho's as ever

been made happened 80 years back at a camp in the

cork oak-forested hills northwest of Algeciras where

a crew of corcheros weeks absent from home soaked

their leftover bread in a basin with water, added

garlic, olive oil, salt. When they could they threw in

cucumber, tomato, green pepper from the huerta,

chopped, mashed, splash of vinegar; a little more oil,

a little more salt. After work the men moved in

with spoons to eat from the common bowl.

Gazpacho. It wasn't chilled or blended smooth;

in fact, it was warm with a tang of ferment,

and someone had tossed in half an onion.

It cost nothing, adhered to no plan,

bore no Michelin stars. It tasted

like a blessing from the land.

Old Men on the Square

My father would have liked it here;

have felt at home, have blended in.

The men on the square resemble him –

unobtrusive, unassuming, wearing

short-sleeved patterned shirts,

not too loud, machine-made, modest,

tucked in denim or polyester pants.

Men who worked the land in their day

hard and long for little pay:

corcheros, rancheros, campesinos,

rural people resting now,

sitting on benches under the trees;

not much to say, not much to do,

not far to go. Headed back to the land.

July Evening, 2021

Eight o'clock. The village still

hot and bright with sun. More

SE VENDE signs than ever

patch the faces of the houses

like some skin disease. The young

have few prospects. The old

are down to the one. A tattered

fringe of bon vivants persists in

lining the cafes; tail-end of pandemic

or just the beginning, who knows...

it can feel like the end of days;

but just for now, the good news is,

we've made it to the edge of dusk.

A trickle of masked humanity

emerges onto the Alameda. Swallows

slash the air, relentless scimitars.

A woman leads her mother by the elbow,

easy does it, slow and tender,

hunched señora taking the air.

Kestrels hang like kites, then slide,

then hang, (then slide) quartering rooftops,

gliding past bell tower topping the hill.

Not the end of days just yet,

this slow and tender end of day.

Jump to Conclusions

America No! is all the young man said,

before angling away into the dark.

At first I didn't understand;

slowly the words found their mark.

How did he know where I was from?

I don't exactly look the part.

In a town this size word gets around.

America No. So what did he mean?

Was it just a lark? Or maybe he bears

a chip on his shoulder; imperial swagger

makes him smolder.

He's tired of meeting extranjeros

on his evening rambles, blames

the Beacon of the Free World for

the current shambles. Fair enough.

I had a tee-shirt once read

US Out Of North America.

But wait a minute...

he was likely just saying americano

in which event,

this rash of speculation 

 is spectacularly misspent.

© John Liechty 2021