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Anthropological Insights for Missionaries

It's the little things in life that make all the difference.

 

Today I took the bus from Ogijares to Granada like I have done twice already in my short time back in Andalucia. I met with friends in the town. We laughed, swapped stories, had a drink and some food, and finally bade each other farewell.

 

Unremarkable in many ways.

 

Except for the lady on the Avenida de Dilar who patently sits behind one of the bus stops every day with her clothes and skin painted silver grey, like some gilded statue. The traffic grinds relentlessly by as she quietly yet fiercely begs for money. I guess the odd embarrassed pedestrian drops her a coin now and then.

 

And there too, on the Reyes Catolicos, an artist sat painting the Iglesia San Anton while thousands of pairs of feet carried indifferent Granardinos about their business. His face was a study in concentration. His painting was important to him, to someone.

 

In Plaza Nueva a boy blew a clarinet. A man shot by on a Segway.

 

Some Americans don't know the difference between England and Britain. Some of my Scottish friends tell me the English don't know either.

 

The Spanish word 'taller' means 'workshop'.

 

In Spain it is considered largely unecessary to say please and thank you all the time.

 

In the Mercadona was I the only person to be fascinated by the sight of a dead octopus astride a tray of chipped ice?

 

I think that maybe I was.

 

I took the reverse bus journey home. A rude full moon sat bare and naked in a dark clear sky illuminating the snow caked Sierra Nevadas. In truth, I've never seen anything quite like it.

 

Back at my friend Chris' house we ate pizza and talked about our day. I took my washing out of the machine. The cat sat transfixed in front of the tv watching a reality show about dwarfs.

 

The bookshelves in my room have some oddly titled books on them.

 

On Monday, I shall try and find a job. See if I don't.

 

 

 

 

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