To Olives

In my defense, I grew up in 1970’s Dallas and oilves came in 1 of 2 forms: green pimento stuffed, cold from the fridge or tiny cans of “black pearls” used in Mexican dishes or layered “cheese salad.” Forgive me for not knowing, but the world was small in 1978.

 

I spent a lot of time picking olives: out of pizza, off lettuce and tacos. Sometimes off a hamburger. They tasted like can, metal, months in a warehouse in Topeka maybe. Nothing delicious comes out of a warehouse in Topeka. Certainly not olives.

It took a day in Spain, a train ride through olive groves. We had just come from Barcelona, Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia, still unfinished. We needed a cheap place to stay, wanted salty air. Valencia. A beach just south. A hostel. I think it had doors on the rooms. Certainly curtains.

We collapsed on the beach. After days in big cities, fighting crowds and language, we needed a wordless landscape. The only one speaking was the Mediterranean. Until the Canadians showed up. But they are a quiet bunch. Polite. Sternly but quietly not Americans, as evidenced by the maple leaf flag sewn on to all their backpacks.

Wine was $1 per unlabeled bottle and every grocery store and pharmacy made their own. We grabbed three bottles, cheese, bread and a can of olives. Back at the hostel picnic table by the beach, we serve slices of cheese to each other right off the knife. No plates, no napkins. We drink from the bottle and have never loved eating this much.

He passes the olives to me. I’m going to be polite and eat one. The sun has set. Even the glow is gone. We lower our voices and I think I hear the sand crabs moving across the beach. We are deep enough into the trip to know this will change us, but not deep enough to realize the trip is taking us and not vice versa.

Of all the nights, I remember two: one in Greece surrounded by cats in a small cafe. And this one. Eating olives with my fingers, realizing I knew nothing about olives. I knew nothing at all.