Where Possibility Lives

The trip across town early this morning for my swim workout was dark, of course, as the swimming begins predawn.  Street lights were still bright at that hour, and the air was cold.  Later when the sky faded from indigo to pale blue, it was evident that the day would be clear and promising.

I made a second trip later back to the college, where the farmer's market is located.  The sky, ocean and everything in between was glistening as if it had just been scrubbed and polished.  The workout had been good, and I was hungry afterwards.  Even a bowl of oatmeal and some fruit did not keep the hunger down for long.  The market, I hoped, would fill my shopping bag with more satisfying fare.  

The market, as it is in the "off months," was peaceful and calm, and vendors spent time in conversation with each other and passersby, and many basked in the sun as they wiled away the time between 10 and 2.  If you'd have heard a loudspeaker playing a gentle melody, it would have fit between the conversations and rounded them to a point of ripeness.

A covey of four-year-olds arrived, guided by patient teachers who had brought them on a field trip to see the market .  They gathered around the Zena Foods booth, eyes dancing, looking for free samples of what might be offered.  They had been coached to keep their hands off of things, but the table top was only four inches below their noses, far too tempting for anyone that age.  Ahmed, attentive and enthusiastic, kept busy giving small triangles of pita bread to the small extended hands.  He spotted us and exclaimed that "Egypt's president is finally going away."  Mubarak was leaving his office, he said, much to our surprise.  We had not heard the update of the news, so we talked about it for a few minutes.

The children, never still for a moment, lost interest in the food and began to drift away.  They all waved good-bye and moved away in a wriggling cluster of energy, and the market gradually quieted again.  They had been a surge of controlled chaos with no intention except to move into the future where they might change it simply by arriving en masse and knocking the usualness of the past aside.

"This is a very good day.  Very good for Egypt.  Good that the people have made their voices and can make their own minds."  He shook our hands and said "We will talk again next week, eh?"  

In the middle of the day when the sun was at its highest point over the southern hills bordering our bay, we met a dear friend in Carmel and were again dazzled by the sparkling splendor of the day.  This is no winter; it is something particularly fine.  Heaven perhaps or the place where possibility dwells.  She had not been to Dametra Cafe, she said, when we suggested it.  Nor had we for some time now, so it became our destination.  Faisal's brother (just as hospitable and about 6 inches taller) was host and the servers were our warm-hearted friends in a matter of just less than a minute.  They dispense hospitality as if it were on sale.

As we had hoped, the oud was pulled down from the wall and the cook pulled from the kitchen to sing a romantic and poignant song to everyone, which he loves to do.  The tall and swarthy host, a man from the Middle East with a warm and charming smile, played the instrument that looks so much like a large brother to a mandolin and walked slowly between the tables.  Everyone was prompted to sing and clap in time to the chorus, which we did with gusto.

On television this evening I saw that Egyptians were washing and cleaning the streets of Cairo, proud of their city, the city they claim as their very own, wrested from the hands of an authoritarian ruler.  Egypt, said one young Egyptian, has lived through a wrenching change that was the will of the citizens, and it will be felt for fifty years now.  The light in his eyes was a reflection of the city lights around him, which shone in the night air while voices sang in the distance.

Celebration at the Dametra Cafe in Carmel

A birthday had gone dashing past, nearly missed in the bustle of the passing week.  Before it could get any further from me, I said, "Time to celebrate!"  Arrangements were made, logistics discussed.  Ideas of various sorts seemed good, but then the idea occurred to us:  Go to The Dametra Cafe in Carmel.  Surely, there you will be happy.  

You can say what you will, but I am very certain that if a need to celebrate arises, magic must ensue, and you must not resist it.  Magic and love.  In this particular cafe, magic is what the place is built on, painted with and soaked in.  It is in the minds and hearts of the people who have created it.  Give love and affection to all who enter and it will be returned to you a hundredfold.  I believe they have a fish and a few loaves of bread from which they feed any and all who enter.

We four celebrants in our four chairs in this small place sit in happy anticipation of food and drink and magic.  It begins to arrive, first in the shower of many hospitable greetings and then in the colors of the walls, the people, the fabric and the air itself.  We are welcomed as newly Greek, travelers to the Mediterranean Ocean, guests of honor.  It feels as though we have returned home and have temporarily forgotten the names of our family members who greet us at the door, for they certainly seem to remember us and hold us dear.

A young man in a blue shirt carries a platter to our table and sets it down with his right hand onto the table top and nods to us.  Enjoy it, he says, and we do.  Four crisped and tender triangles of phyllo dough regard us, leaning on each other, embracing minced spinach and feta cheese.  They all four are warm, speak to us of Greek summers and handsome men dancing at sunset on the beach.  We, tasting sea salt and olive oil, hear the sounds of the Aegean Sea, laughter in the room, music jingling and calling birds.  

The flavors have colors and the colors have sounds.  Spanikopita, baklava, feta, moussaka, lamb, tomato, pita and wine are russet, aubergine, mustard yellow and sienna brown.

A tall man carrying an oud, strumming with slender fingers and a drifting smile, fills the room with peace and music.  Another man stands ready to sing and waits for the strumming hand to find the moment for him to begin, and he sings with a warm, strong voice.  He walks among the tables and we are certain he is our long-loved brother come home from distant shores to tell us of love and happiness.

The walls are softer with the sound of a singing voice, and the music lifts up with the fragrances of olives, onions and lamb, of rosemary and hot bread.  The song is passed from listener to listener in small embraces, as if all of the town itself will be fed and everyone welcomed in.

No one has fault or defect when a song is sung in such a way.  All of us are part of the song, clapping to words we have never heard sung before, settling back in our chairs and feeling the contentment rise with the sung notes and strummed reassurances.  We eat, we sit together and talk.  Emotions rise and fall, turn and weave, settling around us until we are satisfied.  We wade away, up to our knees in pleasure and contentment.  It clings to our jackets and shoes and we say good-bye with it sifting from our cuffs and pockets, trailing from our shoes like glitter.

I am Greek, Turkish, Mediterranean, human more than ever.  Certainly, I am and we all are happy to our core.  Celebration in gracious terms like these never ceases, increasing a hundredfold with every sincere embrace, every grateful smile.