PACO'S PLACE

PACO’S PLACE
By D. Jarreau


On the first floor of my apartment building located on Calle Sant Juame in the Sants area of Barcelona is a bar we call Paco’s.  Although there is a formal and legal name,  it is referred to by it’s patrons as Paco’s. “Nos vemos en Paco’s” we always say. I lived in that building for three years and I cannot tell you the formal name. At Paco’s we never felt that we were in a bar. He always said, “This is my house and you are my invited guest.” When Paco was not preparing a drink, he sat at a table with us playing dominoes, talking or watching the music videos that he so proudly played. If you wanted a drink while he played, you had to wait. Impatience and anger were not tolerated and you knew that if you were a regular. I saw quite a few people asked to leave because they didn’t want to wait. 

I remember the day I met Paco. I call it a lucky day because his place would eventually become my source of emotional strength. In the summer of 2001, two months after I arrived in Spain, I met a fellow Italian, Sofia, who spoke Italian, Spanish and English. She was happy to meet me because she had little opportunity to speak English. I was happy to meet her because she was helpful in my effort to learn Spanish. One day after my lesson on grocery shopping which also turned into a lesson in the Catalan language, she invited me to go to a local café.

“The owner plays only English music,” she said with excitement and paused long enough for me to join in that excitement.

I tried to smile and appear to share her enthusiasm but I had not traveled three thousand eight hundred thirty three miles to hear the music that sang in my ears all of my life, however, an espresso sounded inviting. We entered a small bar through a door that was beside a large planted tree. The dark orange walls held a collection of album covers by English and American artist from the sixties; Jimi Hendrix, Moody Blues, Creedance Clearwater Survival, Allman Brothers, Pink Floyd. Don McLean’s “Bye Bye Miss American Pie” filled the bar. Memories of my high school days came to mind. Tony, Juliet, Paulette, Cynthia, Ralph and other high school friends came to my mind. I began to wonder where they are, what they doing and how I would love to tell them, “Hey look, I did it. I said I would live in Europe some day.” At the same time, poking through the thoughts of Juliet’s pregnancy, Paulette’s marijuana bust and Ralph’s sudden flight to Florida , I tried to remember how to order an espresso in Spanish or do I need to ask for it in Catalan? Café solo? I was also looking at the album covers and noticed r from the seventies: Donna Summer. The memory of disco dancing was added. I hadn’t thought of those years in a very long time. Sofia shook me and I awakened to 2001.

“I knew you would like this place Lizzy.” She thought Lisa was an odd name so she asked if she could call me Lizzy. 
“Yes I do.” It was not that I liked the place. I hadn’t expected to see this in Barcelona or hear Don Mclean singing in a Spanish bar.

She presented me to Paco, who asked me (Sofia translated) if I knew where his name came from. No.
“You have a city named after me in your country, San Francisco. Paco is the nickname for Francisco.” He gave a hearty laugh and I realized that this was a joke and I was suppose to laugh, so I gave it my best Hollywood try and laughed with him. Sofia asked for two cortados without saying please, so I said por favor for her. He smiled and said my cortado was on the house. He later told me that he immediately liked me because I was polite. I didn’t know the contents of a cortado but I knew it contained espresso and that was fine and free was better since Sofia expected me to pay for everything. All Americans are rich is the common belief. 

Paco and Sofia conversed in Spanish. That is when I looked at Paco. He was tall, about 6’2, 190 lbs. thinning brown hair that had natural highlights. What caught my attention was his thick, long moustache that covered his mouth. He had age spots on his golden brown skin. His fingers were long and thin, like a piano player. He held a cigarette and from the stains on his fingers, he was a chain smoker. He moved the cigarette to his mouth and turned to the espresso machine. He directed us to a table and brought over the two cups. He asked me if I was familiar with the singer Don McLean and I explained that I lived in Don McLeans’s hometown, Cold Spring, New York, but I didn’t personally know him.

As we sipped our cortado’s which I learned was an espresso with a little steamed milk, and Sofia talked about the Spanish people, which by now I noticed was always negative, I surveyed the album covers again. From the table I could now see a back section of the small bar. On the left was a small table with neatly stacked newspapers and magazines, a backgammon game and a box that held dominoes. There was a table for two adjacent to that table and then another table with four chairs behind it. To the left was a very small alcove that led to the restrooms.

Paco brought two tapa plates to the table: one with a tortilla espanol, made from eggs, potato and onions, and the other with embutidos, cold cuts. He smiled and waited for me to try each item. It would be awhile before I could appreciate the food. I returned his smile, thanked him, and said it was delicious. 

II

A month later, I moved into the neighborhood, unknowingly, a few blocks away from the bar. I stumbled on the bar again after a very frustrating day of job hunting. I was an illegal immigrant, which made it very difficult and quite frustrating to secure a decent job. I was a misdirected American who thought we could easily live anywhere. This time I ordered a glass of red wine and sat at the end of the bar nearest the door. This was my first time in a bar alone and my first time sitting at the bar. I was nervous.

I hungrily stared at the tapa display. After six months in Spain, my body had not adjusted to the time difference and did not feel hungry at meal times. I woke up around two in the afternoon and could not eat a heavy meal an hour later. It was now six in the evening and I was ready for a light lunch. All the restaurants I passed on the way home were no longer serving “la comida”, a three course meal, but offered to prepare a bocadillo (hero sandwich) which did not sound appetizing. Unlike American sandwiches, a bocadillo was served with two, maybe three slices of an unknown meat, the juice from a tomato rubbed on bread, and olive oil on a baguette. I do not like bread. La cena, the next meal would not be served until nine. Paco had warm tapas available and I wanted something hot. Nothing looked familiar. He tried to explain the contents of each tray. I understood one of the six items; olivas. Finally, he gave me a plate of croquettes’ made with bacalao; two unfamiliar words. Tolerable I thought. A plate of olives seasoned by his eighty seven year old mother followed it. On the side, he placed a small plate of longhaniza and salchicha. It was not spicy soppressata but delicious. 

About an hour later, a well-dressed attractive man walked in. Paco introduced him as Angel. He sat at the other end of the bar and Paco served him a glass of wine. I tried to read a Spanish lesson book and listen to their pronunciation. I noticed that Angel spoke with a different accent from Paco.

Soon thereafter, another man walked in; late fifties, short, balding. In contrast to Angel he was wearing a member’s only jacket, wash and wear slacks and a pair of very worn, scuffed pair of rust colored slip on shoes with thick rubber soles. He greeted Paco and Angel and sat two seats down from Angel. He ordered a drink for Angel and sent a glass of wine to me.  Thinking of what this means in America, I was alarmed and decided I would drink it, in case, not drinking it was offensive. I listened to this man speak and I understood him. I asked Paco where this man was from and he repeated the question to the man.
He responded, “Andalucía.
“Por eso,” I said and explained to him using words from Spanish 101 that I had spent most of my time in Malaga and Seville and that is why I understood his accent. He was happy that I liked his hometown. It truly is the best part of Spain. Alleged job opportunities brought me to the north.

While I spoke to him, Paco brought over my glass of wine and the man introduced himself as Antonio. I had to repeat my name several times and finally write it. There was a discussion between Antonio, Paco and Angel. I was renamed Elisabetta. Lisa is a Spanish word that means plain, flat, and as Antonio said, inappropriate for a woman. We talked about the different cities that I visited in Andalucia; Granada, Lanjaron, the Alpujarras, Seville and many more. I had spent three months traveling through the south of Spain by bus; going north only as far as Benidorm. It was raining when I arrived in the north and was due to rain for the next five days. I went back to Andalucia.

Antonio was humorous. I noticed when he laughed that all the teeth on the upper right side were missing. He told me that he was born in Barcelona but his Andalucian roots showed in his dialect and culture. He refused to speak Catalan, the local language, although he learned Catalan in school. His parents, like Angel’s parents who were from Galicia and Paco’s parents migrated to Barcelona during the Civil War. The Cataluña region was the last region attacked by Franco and his Nationalist Army; the south of Spain being the first. Many Spaniards fled to Cataluña for refuge. The Cabeza family never returned to live in Andalucia, but maintained their homes in Lanjaron and Cadiz. Antonio exuded an air of peace and tranquility and we talked for hours about Spain and America. My words flowed without tension.

My first night at Paco’s house passed quickly. More people came into the bar and I watched and listened. I met  Ernesto, another Andaluz, Alban from Albania, Silvestre who was a native Catalan and many others. Paco introduced me to everyone that came in. When I didn’t understand something said or an action, I turned to Antonio. I learned a lot that night of the culture, language and food. It was eleven. I had been there for five hours.

Antonio, after I checked his credibility with Paco, walked home with me. Paco told me not to worry. He met Antonio a little over thirty years ago when Paco opened the bar with two other Spaniards. Paco was now the sole owner and in the opinion of Antonio the most simpatico of the three. Paco said Antonio is a caballero, a  real gentleman and he would trust him alone with his sister. I didn’t really fear Antonio. I was living with a woman from church so Antonio had to stand a block away and watch me until I safely entered. Before we parted, Antonio invited me to have dinner the next day. He didn’t know anyone else that liked escargot, caracoles. I looked forward to his company and the escargot.

When I lay in my bed that night, I started to question my beliefs and my life.
We were forbidden to go into bars or be with a man not of our faith. Dating was something that had to be approved by the elders. That was my first time in a bar and I didn’t feel guilty. I had met some very nice people. Before I walked into that bar, or Paco’s house, I felt very alone.

III

Three weeks passed and I was accepted as a regular. I was invited in the bar after hours. My new friends invited me to lunch and dinner. It became a contest; who could get me to like the local foods .So far, Antonio was winning. He was an excellent cook. Paco’s wife, also named Elisabetta introduced me to her hairdresser and we always made appointments to go together, always going to Paco’s afterward. Many days, Paco and I sat talking about life, what is of value in life, comparing our cultures and many other topics; religion, politics, history.

Today when I entered Paco was behind the bar flipping through his CD’s when I walked in. I returned from another failed job interview. He leaned across the bar and gave me the customary kiss on both cheeks. Thanks to Paco and Antonio, I learned that I was not being interviewed for whether or not I could do the job, rather, was I willing to do the job and be a mistress to the owner. This is the life of illegal women in Spain. I greeted everyone in the bar, Angel, Antonio and Alban, as is the custom, and sat down at the bar. Paco sat a glass of red wine in front of me, vino tinto. He stopped requiring that I ask for it in Spanish. According to him, I had been in Spain long enough, one year, to engage in any conversation. Antonio told Paco not to take my money, “Te invito”, he said to me, as he always did. “Gracias” I replied. Although the glass of wine cost one euro, I was worried because I had arrived in Barcelona one year before and had not found a job that lasted more than two months and received pay for only one month. 

Antonio sat at the bar drinking an Estrella Damn. As usual, he was still wearing his jacket although he had been there for hours and would be there until the bar closed. He was sittings sideways on the stool, facing both the front door and the newly installed  TV and DVD. In this position, he could turn his head to the right and converse with Paco while watching the videos. It is culturally rude to “give your back” to someone.

Paco went back to looking through his CD’s. He wanted me to hear a song, his favorite song. Antonio had just arrived from a business trip in Madrid and was relating a problem he encountered with his girlfriend in Madrid. She wanted to move to Barcelona and live with him. That would cause a problem since he has a girlfriend, a fiancée in Barcelona.

The door opened and a woman entered. Paco immediately said “cono” and exchanged words with Antonio regarding the woman. She was in her late fifties, overweight, with thinning oily hair cut into a bob. Her clothes were outdated but of quality. She wore makeup, which was rare to see. She staggered to a table toward the back of the bar. This was obviously not the first bar she had been to today. As she sat her coat and purse on the chair beside her, Paco took out a tall glass and filled it halfway with a clear liquid; gin, I assumed. He opened a lemon Fanta soda and took both to her table. When he returned he went behind the counter and stopped. He always pulled on his moustache and stared on the floor when he was in deep thought. Then he remembered.  The CD was sitting by the cash register.  He put it in the new CD player and Don Mclean started to sing “Starry Starry Night.” Paco pointed to the wall facing the bar.  Among the album covers of Jimi Hendrix, Joe Cocker, Pink Floyd  was a newly hung print of Van Gogh’s painting, “Starry, Starry Night.” He asked me to translate the song into Spanish.  I did but it didn’t make sense since I translated word for word and not the idea. He just wanted to know if the song was about the painter himself. During this conversation Paco delivered three more drinks to the woman at the back of the bar.  She had magazines spread across the table and was reading and drinking. At intervals, she stared at the television, then went back to reading a magazine.

She overheard me speak English to Paco and came over to introduce herself, in English. Her name was Marisa and she had studied English and French many years ago to help her husband with his liquor importing company. She didn’t speak English well but felt that if she spoke loudly, I would understand her Spanish words.. By this time, I had joined Antonio and was sitting on the stool next to him. She stood between us, slurring her words and speaking loudly in English, Spanish and French. I could see Antonio’s face.  He  tried to stifle his laughter. Paco, still behind the counter stood near the kitchen door. She could not see him since she faced the door. I, unfortunately, could see him. He stared at her and made expressions to indicate she was crazy. I wanted to laugh, but tried to be understanding and proper. She was telling me about her husband who had passed away a year ago and her problem with her youngest son. I felt sorry for her. She found the solution to her problems in a bottle.

The bar was now filled with people enjoying the music videos. Another new regular, Juan, an illegal immigrant from Columbia, went straight to the slot machines. They are similar to the quarter machines I saw in Las Vegas. When I saw Juan in the bar day after day, I wondered where he got the quarters to put in the machines. He did win a few times, but I doubt if it offset the amount he put in each day. Juan’s cousin, Jesus, was sitting at a table watching T.V. and drinking a beer. A couple came in and silently went to the last table; the one near the restroom. Paco served them drinks and left them alone. I glanced at them once and a second time in error. They were like watching a porno flick, I imagined. His hands were everywhere. Paco said they came in often. He believed the woman was the man’s mistress. They always sat in the back, touched, kissed, went in the restroom, then left.  Paco had seen it all in the past thirty years. He was a good judge of character and an excellent psychologist.

My days and nights in the bar were all memorable. Many Sundays, after church, I went straight to the bar. I spent hours talking to Paco. I respected his opinion; his insight. After all, he had lived almost sixty years under the oppression of the Catholic Church. My church was oppressive and taught us to be critical and judgmental toward everyone not in our religion. I, on the other hand, took after my Italian heritage. I was friendly, outgoing, loving, and caring toward anyone that did not have their picture on a Wanted Poster. I wanted to accept people for the positive and negative aspects of their personality. As I watched the friends interact in the bar and listen to their experiences, I learned what true friendship involves. There had been disputes between them; difficult periods but they were all still friends and close friends. When Antonio’s best friend and father died the same week, we were all by his side. The day of the funerals, Paco kept the bar open late and his family joined us; his wife, son, daughter, and grandson. Antonio was not alone in his sorrows. 

One Friday night about ten o’clock Antonio, Ernesto, Marisa, Paco and I were in the bar. He was preparing to close and we helped. I swept the floor while Ernesto and Antonio wiped off the tables and sat the chairs on top. We had had a lot of fun that night. We watched the concerts of Pink Floyd, The Eagles, Elvis Presley, the Bee Gees Reunion, Woodstock and Robbie Williams. 
As we cleaned, Ernesto said, “Where are we? Is this an American Bar?” He then pulled out from his backpack a collection of Flamenco CDs. Paco agreed with him and played the Spanish National Anthem and with wet eyes, Paco, Antonio, Ernesto and Marisa sang with their hearts. I understood what they must have felt at that time after I read “The Spanish Civil War” by Anthony Beevor. My friends loved their country. Unlike most foreigners I met in my travels, the Spaniards have no desire to migrate to America or even see America. Eventually I shared their views of the country and made it my home. When they finished singing and wiping the tears away, Paco took the CDs from Ernesto and played a few of them. Marisa and Ernesto danced. Ernesto tried to teach me to clap and Antonio watched with joy. I learned that night that Paco knew little of Flamenco because he was from Tenerife and Antonio could not dance although he loved music. Paco closed the presiana (gate) so no one could see inside. A bar has to have a license for dancing and Paco did not. After Flamenco, we danced to salsa. I danced with Paco. Everyone was shocked. Paco had never danced before. He was stiff and did not remove the cigarette from his mouth. We all danced and talked until one in the morning. My happiness was short-lived when I arrived at my door. My Christian roommate locked me out of the house. She was an unhappy woman, lonely and miserable. I know that she was jealous because I was enjoying my life. She had given me a curfew of midnight and refused to open the door. Antonio, as became the custom, walked home with me and not having a place to go, he offered his home. He moved all of his belongings that night into his small bedroom and gave me the master bedroom.  The next day we arranged to pick up my clothes and I spent the next three years living next door to Paco’s Place and living with a friend that I will love and respect for the rest of my life. 

I made friends for life in Paco’s place. I learned what is needed in life to be truly happy. It was not money and material things like my American culture taught me. I had given up an executive job to find something I did not have: friends.  I held Antonio in my arms when in the same week his father and best friend died and felt his tears through my blouse. I helped carry Marisa home when she was intoxicated and fell in the street as she left Paco’s one night. I gave Angel a hug and support and a loyal friendship when I learned that he had AIDS. Angel, I learned later, was a homosexual; someone my church taught me to despise, loathe. Angel became a good friend and support. I felt remorse about terminating the employment of a gay secretary years ago, but back then, I felt I had God’s support in doing so. They helped me when my bank account was down to five Euros. I was unemployed and unhappy, thinking that the only solution was to return to America. We were all people trying to get through this life the best we could and you need friends to do that. I found them at Paco’s Place.

Paco closed his bar and we had a tearful good-bye party. I was one of the few people that knew why he closed. I overheard a conversation between Paco and Silvestre. Paco told everyone he had to close the bar to help his sister who had cancer, but it was he that had cancer. Antonio thought I just misunderstood. Given the rest of the conversation, I was certain I had not misunderstood. Paco gave the bar to Juan, the Columbian and a year later, he passed away. I miss him and I still thank him for the good times and for helping me to find me. I will never forget the times I shared with my friends in Paco’s Place. 

You taught me how to love life.