Chapter 4: New Neighbors

New Yorkers often say that small town life is alive and well in America — it just happens to exist in a city of 8.5 million people. In the week leading up to our move to Madrid, we sadly said goodbye to the dry cleaners, cobbler, nail salon ladies, fruit stand man, and coffee cart guy in our Greenwich Village neighborhood, all of whom we had befriended over the years. These people were as much a part of our daily lives as our closest friends, and we knew that we would sincerely miss them.

Happily, it was only a matter of days before we began to establish similar relationships in our new neighborhood in Madrid. Already we recognize the faces of the people nearby, and they recognize us in return.

There’s the proprietor of the cheese and sausage stall, a man roughly in his 50s wearing a flat cap, who patiently walks us through cow, goat, and sheep cheeses — vaca, cabra, oveja — and warmly thanks us for our purchases.

The owner of the bakery stall is a tall, handsome, elderly man with thinning, curly hair and kindly, angled eyes. Kate privately calls him “abuelo,” though — given that we are now in our late 50s ourselves — he is probably closer in age to an older brother than a grandfather.

At the produce stand, we are greeted by a smiling man in his late 30s with, “¡Hola también!” He already recognizes us, and he knows that we will need help learning the Spanish words for the items we want to buy. He is as happy to teach us his language as he is to make a sale, and Kate says, “Gracias y hasta luego, maestro” as we leave with our purchases.

Next door to our efficiency apartment is a large sundries store, not unlike the Woolworth’s of our childhoods. This has everything we need, from toilet paper and disinfectant, to a broom and dustpan, to 50-cent cans of local beer. The young man at the register and the middle-aged woman organizing the shelves and aisles are always there, seeming never to sleep. They are unflagging in their courtesy, and greet us with smiles every time we enter. Their store is called Super Bazar Vecino; vecino, meaning neighbor in English. It feels perfect.

And from the balcony of our efficiency, four flights up from the street below, we see our other neighbors from a distance. As we rest our forearms on the railing, heads cocked at an angle toward the sun or leaning down toward the street to see who is coming or going, we are heartened to see the arrival of delivery and street-cleaning trucks.

At eye level are our fellow personas confinadas. A woman, perhaps just a bit older than we, opens her massive shutters and shouts, “¡Hola, chicas!” We like to think that — if she assumes we are not Spaniards — it is only because of the hotel sign on our building, and not because we can’t even say the word “hola” without sounding like Americans.

And every evening at exactly 8:00 pm, the twenty-somethings in a nearby building step out on their terraces to lead everyone in the neighborhood — from old men on rooftops to small children on balconies — in applause, whistles, and shouts of gratitude to the countless healthcare workers who are risking their own lives to save the lives of others. Kate and I include the workers at the food market, pharmacy, and sundry shop in our shouts and pot-banging.

And then “Resistiré” by Dúo Dinámico blasts from someone’s stereo speakers, followed by Aretha Franklin and Gloria Gaynor’s own odes to resistance. We feel right at home. Súper, súper vecinos.

©2020 Kay Diaz