Rain and Olives

In summer, Barcelona is always hot — so hot that you get used to that heavy air and to always feeling a little sticky. That afternoon I walked to the immigration office to run an errand, about forty blocks from my place in Barceloneta. I took the prettiest route, though maybe not the shortest — through Parc de la Ciutadella, past the Arc de Triomf, and straight down Passeig de Sant Joan, a street so long I never once got bored. In fact, I got distracted in a huge comic book store. Before I knew it, I'd lost more than 40 minutes wandering between comics and superhero figures, so I rushed out, dreading the inevitable — and when I got to the immigration office, it was already closed.

There was a small consolation, though: I remembered passing a municipal market on the way. To make that whole walk worth it, I planned to buy some of those delicious seasoned olives the ladies sell with their huge ladles and their short Catalan patience. But I'd barely walked half a block when the loudest storm I can remember broke out. In just seconds — lightning, thunder, sheets of rain, and a hostile wind ready to carry off hats, branches, anything in its way.

It caught me in the middle of a little plaza with a small street fair, and the first thing I thought was: damn it, no olives for me — with this weather, I wasn't going to make it to the market on time either. As I tried to walk, looking for shelter, I saw a jewelry craftsman fighting to keep his stall's poles from flying away. Half his things had already blown off. I realized that when I got closer and threw my arms around one of the corner posts, trying to hold onto the tarp and the wood — and I just stayed there. The three of us stayed there. Eugeni, the craftsman, and Amanda, the woman from the stall next door, whose structure seemed to be holding up much better against the storm.

We held on as long as we could, until the roof was so full of water we had to coordinate emptying it. Stones and settings kept sliding away in the current the rain was forming toward the drains, and we tried to catch them however we could — with our hands, with our feet. Eugeni cursed in Catalan, then sang to try to calm himself down. At one point the three of us looked at each other, soaked, exhausted, hair plastered to our faces — and we laughed. The storm didn't seem willing to let up.

I feel like it must have been about half an hour before it started to ease, the raindrops slowly getting smaller and the wind less violent, until we could finally let go of the stall, our arms half numb from holding on so hard. We used the calm to finish gathering what was left and sort out what we'd managed to save. Eugeni hugged us — I think he cried a little too. "Thank you, moltes gràcies!" he told me. He opened the wet cloth where they kept the rings and pulled out a turquoise one. "For you. Thank you." He asked me, please, to take it, saying it would be an offense to him if I didn't accept it as a token of gratitude. I put the ring on, hugged him, and turned around to find Amanda to say goodbye too before heading home.

Amanda was coming out from under her stall's closed awning — with all the chaos, I hadn't even asked what she sold. She came over with a little bag, handed it to me, and thanked me. She told me it was a gift, and I didn't dare argue again — I just accepted it. We hugged, and I left.

And here's the magic: when I opened the bag, I couldn't hide my smile or my surprise. They were seasoned black olives. The very olives the storm had stopped me from buying found their way to me anyway.