Walking the the village every day, swimming through the tsunami of tourists, I often see local residents floating among the foreigners. I don’t know their names, though we occasionally might nod to each other as we make eye contact.

There is the one I call the Shuffler who takes short rapid steps, probably due to a stroke. He is the owner of one of the bakeries, and I often run into him as he leaves after seeing to the receipts and watching the doors closed by his employees.

Another walks rapidly with his neck bent so that he leads with his bald head. Edualdo is from Ecuador, and we actually exchange a few words if he is outside his shop having a smoke.

Then there is the Hummer. He walks all day it would seem, hands behind his back, humming what could be fragments of hymns. He avoids my eye, and never answers if I greet him. He doesn’t remember, perhaps, that twenty ago years my partner considered him a good friend, and we had often met in his shop.

– Part of a collection of pieces Patrick sent me on 11 August 2015 called You Never Know.

Patrick

Patrick Meadows 1934 – 2017.