Blue Eyes

I picked a bench that was in the sun.

In that place, depending on the season, people avoided or followed the sun. Since it was the cooler month of February, shade was avoided.

People crossed the street so that they could walk on the sunny side. By the river they sat where the grass was greenest, basking in the sun’s warmth. And if you knew the city well enough, and knew the angles of the sun, then you knew where to find its heat. Even in the maze of cobbled streets. For whether the sun was in the east or the west, you could find which roads would be shaded and chilly, and which would be bright and warm.

I was in Seville, Spain. And like these people, I followed the sun.

Walking to the end of La Avenida de la Constitución, I found myself at a plaza. There I sat on a bench made of cement. It was hot. People were all around. The murmur of their passing conversations was comforting.

I could hear the trickle of the water fountain.

Hippies sat nearby with drums, beating a deep rhythm throughout the street.

Bike bells chimed briefly. And then passed.

Girls laughed. Giggled. Screamed.

Dogs barked.

Boys shouted.

Skateboard wheels rumbled over the sidewalk.

The wings of pigeons whooshed. Flapped.

Their throaty “coo” soft and barely there. Settling at the fountain.

A taxi honked.

A moped’s motor rattled by.

Wheels from horse-pulled wagons echoed.

The callapity-clap of hooves on cobble repeated.

It may seem like chaos. But it was peaceful commotion.

I rested there. My bag at my feet. Hair up, the sun on my neck. Orange peels on my lap. Turning the pages of a Hemingway book.

Minutes passed.

Pages turned.

An hour gone. There was no wind, just the sun and its heat. I closed my eyes.

A slow shuffle of footsteps I heard, and then slight noises at my side. I opened my eyes, and looked into the clear blue eyes of an old man. He wore a bright orange sweater, khaki pants, and thick brown shoes. His wrinkled hands rested on a walking cane.

I smiled at him, shyly. And he asked me, “Está bien si yo hable contigo?” Is it okay if I talk with you? Surprised and curious, I said, “Sí.” Yes.

The first thing he told me was that he walked the same path to this plaza almost every day. But now he walked it alone. His wife had passed away last year. He shared stories about the people he saw, and how many of these people also came here daily. There was a rhythm and pattern that these people followed. A routine.

He called himself Pepe, a nickname for José.

I told him my name. “Me llamo Kelly.”

He smiled. His teeth were crooked, some missing, and stained from coffee and tobacco. But his smile was in his eyes, so bright that they were even distracting, and made up for the sparkle that his teeth lacked. And he said, “Que hermoso.” What a beautiful name.

Our conversation continued…

And then for a while we sat without speaking at all, just listening to the sounds and people around us.

When I think back on it now, I don’t remember all the details of that conversation, but more of how I felt. Our talk was so simple. Peaceful and uncomplicated. There was a genuine interest in the simple words that we exchanged.

And maybe now as you’re reading to the end of this, you’re wondering, “What was the point of this story?” The point is that there is no point. At least in the time that the conversation actually took place, there was no point. It was just a nice experience. Pleasant company.

But even so, among the many other interactions and conversations that have taken place in my life, there are many that have been forgotten. However, this is one encounter with another person that I clearly remember, and can still feel the effects of peace that it brought to my heart. And for this, I am somehow different from it.

So in honor of the old man with distracting blue eyes, I share this story.