Morning in Grazalema
Morning in Grazalema
7:15am.
It is morning in Grazalema.
Our predawn hike zeniths above town, a cloudless popsicle sun slips over eastern hills, throwing the village into a stage lit set piece. Somewhere a lone dog barks. A cool breeze blows. A bee lands on my arm and flies away, enticed by the wild flowers I gather in hand for our friends at Rumores for post caminal cafes.
8:30am
Rumores is full. We grab the two secret seats, snuggled between the distilling drums and beer spigots. Tempting our view, and close enough to touch, the altar of jamón presides in sacramental seduction. An old woman walks in on a young woman’s arm. An old man sips his sol y sombra. Rocío “holas” and Rosi smiles, adding our flowers to the tableau and I change the water in the plastic bottle vase previously gifted on Monday. Mario brings our coffee. Behind the bar, an aromatic opera of steaming milk, clanking cups, clinking glass and toasting bread unfolds in practiced murmuration, like starlings in precision flight: impossibly close but never crashing. The rhythm is rapid not rushed. The amicable roar of every-table-full washes in a timpani through the room. The kitchen conductress controls, nameless hands constantly creating, more badminton than baton. I need to learn her name.
It is 9:15am.
A communion of crumbs carpets the counter. A quartet of bikers finds a table. Rodrigo juggles toast and for a second the symphony of chaotic caffeine and steam ceases from stainless steel. The music crests as the morning ebbs and retreats; ebbs and retreats, teasing relief.
It is 10am.
Two drums of gas are delivered, and Rocío picks up our 5 Euro bill previously laid out. Our empty cups are removed. A baseball capped tourist walks in: a newbie. Regulars drift out. The populated tide recedes leaving behind its detritus of dishes, spoons and crusts scattered across the breakfasted beach. The bikers revived, regroup and remount. Rodrigo takes my tip.
“Gracias.”
“De nada.”
The concerto dims. The staff orchestrated, walks not runs. The morning’s waves now lap, not crash. What was cacophony is now conversation. Panting, now breaths.
It is 10:15am.
It’s morning in Grazalema.
—- David Eugene Perry
8 August 2024
David is working on his new novel inspired by Grazalema this month. It is the fifth visit for him and his husband, Alfredo, to the town. His award-winning mystery thriller, “Upon This Rock”, is in screenplay development and going into its second printing.