Barb Voyage!

“Magic of Abanicos,” “14,000-foot Journey,” “St. Anthony and the Boob”

The Japanese hand fan appeared in Europe in the 15th century when the Spaniards opened trade routes to China and Japan. Though originally rare and expensive, this useful accessory soon became common.  Valencia, Spain, became one of the most prolific producers of outstanding hand fans.

I wish I’d had known the meanings of fan gestures while I was sitting at Mass last Sunday when I met Consuelo.  Apparently I was saying a lot more than, “I’m stinking hot!”

When my hand wearied, I held it close to my heart, saying “I love you” to about ten people!

Stopping tentatively to listen to the priest, thinking I may possibly have understood what he just said, I placed a finger on top of my fan, which means, “I want to talk to you.”  (which, in fact, I do want to set up an appointment with the priest)

At one point, I rested the elbow of the fan-holding hand, in the palm of my other, placing the fan on my lips.  I don’t know if anyone saw me, but I was “asking for a kiss!”

I don’t recall holding my open fan over my left ear, so thankfully I told no one to “not reveal our secret.”

I fanned vigorously at one point, then slowly at another.  I should have kept up the pace, because slow fanning says, “I am a married woman and not interested in you.”

I have no idea who I looked at when I slowly and deliberately closed my fan, saying,  “I promise to marry you.”

Perhaps I held my closed fan behind my head as I left the Church.  This means “forget me not.”

I opened and closed my fan quite a few times, telling someone that they were “cruel!”

Opening the fan slowly, I was obviously telling Jesus to “wait for me.”

I never dropped the fan, which means “I belong to you”, nor did I lend it to anyone, which brings bad luck. 

No one used it as a sunshade, as we were indoors, but if they had, they would have been telling me that I am ugly and they don’t like me.  Whew!

If someone had used it as a shade while covering her face she would have been saying, “Be careful they are watching us”. 

After Mass, when Consuelo and I set up our “coffee and salad” date, she thanked me for fanning her a bit, and told me she was looking forward to my visit to her humble home.

I entered into the darkness of this narrow concrete place, climbing the uneven steep steps from the door on the sidewalk.  The wall along the stairwell was stained and dingy, as Consuelo welcomed me into her kitchen/living room area.

As in every Mexican house, the TV was on full blast.  This also occurs in restaurants and bars.  TV always in the background.  Her table, against the wall, was stacked with some papers, a child’s sweater, (Mexicans here constantly put sweaters on their kids, even when it’s sweltering), and a flowered plastic plate flanked by a fork and a knife, with a paper towel folded on the plate.  This was for me.

I complimented her for having such a wonderful home.  It was high, narrow and deep.  Behind the kitchen was a sleeping area, the entry to which was covered with a partial curtain.  I could see bunk beds and another full size bed.  Lots of pale pink. Consuelo told me that two of her daughters and two of her granddaughters lived there with her.

The husband, father, and grandfather of these females, had passed away three years ago.  He had dropped dead of a heart attack while on the soccer field.  He was born in 1954, which would have made him 57 when he passed.  He had left this home for the family, the downstairs of which also had a kitchen, and housed Consuelo and the daughter without children.  His picture hung, crooked, on the wall above the table.

I have noticed also, that photos, and pictures of Saints hang unevenly, and randomly in many Mexican places.  There will be a crucifix at chest level, near the light switch, and a Sacred Heart of Jesus in velvet about a foot from the ceiling, and a large dusty mirror somewhere in between and to the right or left.

“Muy guapo,” (very handsome) I said, and she shook her head in agreement.  Then she showed me the humongous salad she had prepared, and said that it was all for me, because she had eaten!

“Dios mio!” (my God!) I cried.  “This is huge!  You must eat some of this with me.”  She giggled and said once again that she had already eaten.  She then offered me a chicarron (fried pork rind).  Now I had only ever had the “chips” kind that are allowed liberally on a low carb diet.  but these were the real thing, and apparently they’re quite the treat.  She had made them because it was her youngest granddaughter’s birthday, and she had no money to buy a cake. When I asked her why she didn’t make one, she told me her oven didn’t work.  Thank God for the stovetop!

“Of course I’ll have one,” I said, but she wanted to load me up!  Finally she settled for giving me one, which I dug into with a bit of trepidation.  Tasty, fatty, gloppy, breaded, it reminded me of eating the chicken skin or fat off of roasts or steaks at my Slovak grandmother’s house when I was young.  My great grandmother, Baba (Elizabeth Balent), who lived to be 92, loved to eat fat.  I’m not sure I would ever “choose” this dish, but I’m grateful to have experienced it, and pleased Consuelo as well.

After eating a small portion of the giant salad of lettuce, cucumber, steamed broccoli, green peppers, and hardboiled eggs, and scolding Consuelo for not telling me I was coming on little Sarah’s 5th birthday, in walked the girls!  Her daughters, about 32 and 34, were lovely and welcoming.  The angels, Sarah, now 5, and Kimberly, 9, were bright, and huggable, and eager to engage in conversation and play with this white-headed anomoly in their “abuela’s” kitchen.

They were intrigued with my fan, so I let them play with it (which I now know is bad luck).  Nonetheless, they fanned and posed and giggled.  They sang me songs, and we all sang Happy Birthday in Spanish.  They picked at the salad and were told they had to wait for their chicarrones, the special birthday treat.

Sarah sat on my lap and looked at my face with her dark, exotic-looking eyes and dimpled smile.  I put a horse braid in Kimberly’s shiny coal black locks.  I taught them hand games, including thumb-fighting, and they were in hog heaven as I pulled my palms out from under theirs and quickly slapped their hands.  Quick learners, they began to be too fast for me.  We laughed and laughed.

Then Consuelo suggested we go downstairs where it was cooler, but to please excuse how poor and ugly it was down there.  It was indeed cooler, and no different appearance-wise than the upstairs. What was clear, was that she had filled this home with security and comfort and love.

One of the daughters turned on music and lounged on the couch, as Sarah, Kimberly and I began to swirl around, holding hands, dancing, and laughing.  I made them do twirls and dips and “freezes,” in time with the music.  It was wonderful.  The daughters clapped and Consuelo beamed.

Kimberly had to do homework, so I traced Sarah’s hand on a piece of white paper with her favorite color crayon, purple.  I made it into a turkey.  Then she wanted to trace my hand, and draw my long nails and rings on it.  She then put her hand inside the traced figure of mine, and I traced hers again, and put nails on it.

“Anillos también! Como ti!” she exclaimed. (rings too, like you!).  So I drew a ring on each of her fingers; a cat, a dog, a star, a heart, and a flower.  I suppose I had given her a present after all.  It had been two hours and I bade them all farewell, promising to return.  We kissed and hugged and off I went, down the steep grade to Trenie’s.  I was late for Trenie’s by about twenty minutes.

After walking a few blocks, switchbacking across the 5th of December neighborhood, I realized I was lost.  I also realized I didn’t have my phone.  I walked some more in the excruciating heat, confident that I could find her place, but after passing the same few corners one too many times, I decided to head home and get my phone to call her for directions.

Once home, no phone.  Must have left it at Consuelo’s.  Well, now I can go buy a birthday present before I traipse back up that grade!  I found a purple fan for Sarah, and picked out a fuscia one for Kimberly.  I also got the birthday girl an “anillo,” a little white and gold flower ring.

They were surprised to see me, as I plopped down on the couch, drenched, and was handed a glass of ice water from one of the daughters.  I explained I had probably left my phone here at their house, but after much searching, and calling, it was nowhere to be found.

Sarah and Kimberly came dancing out of the shower wrapped in fuzzy towels, hair wet, smiles wide.  I told them to go put their clothes on and come back, because I had presents for them.  I never saw two little girls dry off and dress so quickly!

They loved the fans, but little Sarah saw the bright pink and suddenly, purple wasn’t her favorite color anymore!  Kimberly sweetly let her sister have the fuscia one.  They danced flamenco, posed, and smothered me with gratitude.  Who would have known what magic two little abanicos could bring into two little girls'  days!

Then out came the birthday ring.  Sarah put on and held her hand out in front of her like a red carpet pro.  Kimberly was a little disappointed, but I told her that her special day was coming, March 4th.  She grinned and looked up at her mother as if to say, “I like this lady!”

Attention turned bak on my missing phone, when I began to silently mutter the Prayer to St. Anthony; "Dear St, Anthony, please come around, something is lost and cannot be found.”  As I rummaged again through my purse, I felt a lump in my breast.  My jaw dropped, I looked up, reached into my boob, and pulled out my phone!  

“Dear Lord!” I screamed, “it was right here in my boob!  Gracias a Santo Antonio!”  (Thank you, St. Anthony!)  As if we hadn’t laughed enough already!  Tears came to our eyes, as we laughed even more when I showed them my “health application” on my phone - between my journey to find Trenie’s house, and then my climb back up the hill, I had walked 14,000 steps!!!

Right in the middle of an ordinary day, music and dancing and laughter and love - this is the way of life I love.  Though very poor in material things, Consuelo’s un-matching plastic plates, uneven pictures on the wall, non-working oven, and ages old TV were no obstacles to joy.  I can’t wait to see them all again - but next time, i think I'll bring them some of my yummy Cuban crouqetas - and a cake!