This Catalan woman is deceptive. Despite never being much outside of this tiny village and usually dressed in an apron, she writes and takes photos. Outside her dilapidated house are plants with homemade decorations. And she maintains a garden outside the old town that feeds her throughout the year.
I love talking with her although sometimes it can be rough going between her Catalan and my American accents.
What she said this time I didn't understand, nor did Lydia who is a francophone.
The Mamie disappeared across the street to the 13th century church and came back with a list of masses.
She pointed to the one 10:30 Thursday...English. I tell her I will share it with my Catholic anglophone friends.
Having taken care of my soul, she left us to write.
10:25 Thursday and I'm in bed having written from 4-8:30 a.m.
A knock on the door.
The Mamie tells Rick to remind me about the mass.
He says I'm asleep.
About ten people did attend, she told me later. I told her I've passed the word. She'll give me a chance next week to go again. Maybe I will for her sake.
*The old Catalan women of the village whose families have lived here for generations.
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