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Torres Torres | The Dreamweaver


I was traveling in rural Spain with my grandfather in an old SEAT 600 when my grandfather said he had to use the toilet.

We drove along for a few more miles until we came to the small town of Torres Torres, and I parked in front of a bar that appeared to be open.


My grandfather went in to find the toilet and I tried to get the car radio to work but there was nothing but static.


I was becoming somewhat impatient as it was taking my grandfather an unusually long time to merely use the toilet, so I got out of the car and went to the trunk and removed a bedspread that I had recently picked up from the dry cleaning shop.


I got back into the car, climbed into the back seat and covered myself with the bedspread deciding to while away the time by having a short nap.


I woke up a few minutes later when I heard the sound of footsteps approaching the car, but it was an elderly man walking his dog.


I sat up and noticed a man waving at me from the bar entrance, so I got out of the car and walked over to the bar.


The man, who obviously thought I didn't speak Spanish, pointed to a table at the back of the bar where, I was surprised to see, my grandfather sitting.


I began to speak Spanish and told the man it was my grandfather and asked him if everything was alright.


He told me my grandfather had ordered a cup of coffee and a croissant and asked me if I wanted anything to eat or drink.


I thanked the man and asked him if he had any peach nectar.


He laughed and said he did but that hardly anyone ordered it anymore.


When I asked him if he had tortilla de patata, he was delighted to say that his wife had just made one fresh that afternoon.


I walked to the back of the bar and sat down at my grandfather's table and he asked me what had taken so long for me to come inside.


I told him I thought he was just running inside to use the toilet and he said that he did but afterwards felt like having a bite.


The man brought over my peach nectar and tortilla and handed my grandfather the bill.


Worried that the small rural establishment might not accept electronic payments—and not knowing if my grandfather had any cash—I asked the man if we could pay with a card and at once he became aggressive and verbally abusive, accusing us of trying to get a free meal.

I was able to calm him down insisting that we had no such intention and I offered to go to an ATM to withdraw some cash to pay our bill.


The man said the closest ATM was more than 20 kilometers away but he would forgive us of our debt if we helped out in the kitchen with the dishes and cleaning.


Then I woke up.

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