Lady in the Cafe

She came into the café lugging a huge sack on her back and decided to set up shop right next to me. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she unfolded blanket after colorful blanket onto the floor in the middle of the coffee shop. She wore a Mayan-style dress, but not of the ornate style that I saw much of earlier in the week. No her clothes were not glamorous at all. They looked dusty and worn out, as did her braided hair. As she was unrolling her products I noticed her lips gently whispering a prayer. I must have caught her glance because she looked at me and said, in English, “You like? Only 60 Quetzales.”

In contrast to most other shops in town, this coffee house had a spacious interior with cozy couches spread throughout the town and a ceiling window letting in just the right amount of sunlight. In Xela, there are enough places tailored to travelers like me to make you forget how surrounded you really are by poverty, injustice and daily suffering. Having just finished a Skype conversation with Julie and now updating my blog to the soundtrack of some Radiohead, I realized that is precisely what happened before the woman spoke to me.

“No thank you,” I responded in broken Spanish, “but your blankets are very nice.” I lack the ability to ignore another human being when he or she speaks to me – especially one who seems in need – but sometimes this gets me into situations that I’d rather not be in. She showed me another blanket – along with a picture of her making the blanket – and said, “I made this. With hands.” In her mouth she was missing all but five or six teeth. “It’s very pretty but I can’t buy one today,” I replied, trying my Spanish once again.

I put my headphones back in and tried returning to my writing, but I felt very rude. I thought music in my ears might diffuse the awkwardness of the situation, but I felt bad for this poor woman and couldn’t help but watch her out of the corner of my eye. Another foreigner walked by and didn’t even bother to look at the woman desperately trying to sell her a blanket. Beth, my housemate, strode by to the bathroom and – with her genuine smile – gave the woman a cheerful “No gracias.”

Once again, the woman grabbed my attention. “Are you student?” she inquired. “Yes… El Nahual. Lo conoces (do you know it)?” “Aye sí! Jaime (the director of the school) is my friend.” Her face lit up with excitement. “Write name here. I tell Jaime,” she said as she handed me an envelope. Not thinking, I wrote my first name. She continued, “I come martes (Tuesday).” Duh, I thought to myself, She wants to tell Jaime I want to buy a blanket from her. “No. I’m not going to buy a blanket martes.” “Martes. I come martes,” she repeated, possibly out of confusion, possibly out of hope. “I don’t want one,” I firmly stated, as I put my headphones back in.

She pressed her hands to her lips and, with her eyes closed, started praying more emphatically. Her body rocked back and forth desperately. Her face looked worried and worn, like she had not sold many blankets at all lately.

Once again she started talking to me, and once again I couldn’t ignore her. She told me in a mixture of broken English and Spanish that she did not live in town. She lived an hour outside of town where no one could buy her blankets. I told her, “No thank you,” again and she started folding up her merchandise.

I felt guilty sitting there on my computer with my biggest concerns at the moment being that I didn’t have a plug converter to charge my laptop and that the weather might postpone my hike up the volcano in town.

Hoisting her huge sack of blankets over her back, she looked back at me for one last sales pitch. “I come here next Saturday. Ok?” I said I probably wouldn’t be here. She talked me up to a maybe and I settled for that. Her English – at least her accent with the words she knew – was surprisingly good, so I told her that. “Isgood?” she asked for clarification. “’Is’ es es,” I responded, “y ‘good’ es bien.” “Sí?” she asked enthusiastically, her eyes squinting and her toothless mouth opening into a bright smile. “Is good,” she repeated. “Muchas gracias, Tom,” she said, maintaining that same smile as she walked out the door.

At least she left with something.