The Poet
A few weeks ago, a reader asked me if I only ever visit small dusty towns when I’m exploring. I was not sure how to reply so I left the question and the person there to ponder. On their own. Now I would like tell you about that time I was in the infamous big apple stuck between a model and a motorcade but that’s a blog for another day.
Today’s blog is about the time I was in a not-dusty north american city, famous for its large tower and being host to the notorious G8 and G20 meetings of the worlds most powerful promoters of white supremacy and the hegemonies that enforce it.
It was a riot. Literally there was a small scale riot while we were there and I stupidly had the audacity to comment on the riot. That ended up being a farce. So far, so bad. Then there was the night I snuck off from a work dinner thing and ended up finding myself between a rock and a hard place for several hours. It was most pleasant and I’d highly recommend getting lost and putting on a lost boy face in that seedy part of town.
Getting back to the work at hand the next morning, I was told that I had a long wait before anything serious or blog worthy was about to happen. I set up an intern on watch duty and went exploring by bus and on foot in this large, modern North American city. Certainly no dusty village with old men sitting on corners, drinking coffee and sprouting koans here. Still, by no small measure of a good nose, a terrible sense of direction and a wonderful pair of walking boots; I ended up at a market spread out over a few blocks.
Where I found an old man, with a table piled with spices and trinkets and a ready smile. He also had a little bialetti to the side on a low dusty table. He caught me staring at the coffee pot and offered me a coffee. I happily said yes, please and thank you.
We continued to speak as he set about preparing the pot.
He pulled out a little metal sheet and set it on the dusty table. He then placed an ancient bunsen burner on the sheet and then set a little tripod over it. I browsed the spices while he did this. Bunches of vanilla hung from the little awning that formed the roof of his stall. The stalls on this edge of the street market were actually permanent concrete structures, each with a narrow shutter door. They were probably storage areas long ago but with the sprawl of the street market, they become the backstop to the rows of local and exotic produce in this city.
The old man unscrewed the bialetti and emptied out the spent grounds into a flower pot. A healthy jasmine set in half a wine barrel. This drew my attention to the line of roses potted in an assortment of buckets, wooden planter boxes and some in old coffee sacks. They were in bloom and for the first time I caught their heady aroma as I stepped closer to better see their colour. They were white roses, matching the blooming jasmine but as I moved towards the end of the row, I caught a whiff of lemon and then I caught sight of the yellow rose in bud. The old man came closer to me and said; ‘I’m growing these for my wife.’ The roses were not the traditional or classic rose shape and their aroma was strongly lemony mixed in with the usual attar. It was intoxicating and over the course of the afternoon, I kept going back to inhale deeply of this magnificent rose.
The old man reached behind the low stool he was seated on and magically pulled out an almost identical version which he handed to me and motioned for me to sit down.
I had been walking for a few hours by then and good boots notwithstanding, I gratefully accepted his offer. I set the stool down facing him and and at an angle to the passing foot traffic. The little row of roses was to my right and behind me the aroma of the large potted jasmine. Just above me the vanilla pods gently dropped their sticky sweetness into the air.
The market became considerably less busy as the afternoon wore on and the old man proceeded with preparing the bialetti.
He filled the cup with water from a tap bolted to the wall on the corner next to the shutter door. The tap drained into a shallow culvert that flowed under where the roses and jasmine were placed. He set the cup down on the low table which had received a cursory wipe down by this time. I pulled out my tobacco pouch and motioned to offer a roll-up.
He smiled widely and nodded.
He pulled out a box from under the main table and immediately I smelt the aroma of a beautifully roasted coffee blend. He opened the lid and pushed the box towards me. I stopped rolling and reached my hands over to waft the aroma closer to me. A buffet of chocolate and oak reached me instantly and I smiled back. ‘My wife roasts this at home for us’ he said ‘it’s mostly arabica from a trader that says it’s from his family village in Antigua.’
He proceeded to fill the cup with grounds and then reached over and grabbed a weight from the mechanical scale to gently and firmly tamp the grounds down.
By now I had a few rollups made from an organic blend of Virginia tobaccos, from down south of our current location. I handed one over and the old man admired the rolling as I nodded to his perfectly tamped cup.
More smiles.
He handed over the two parts of the bialetti to me to finish up and lit the bunsen burner. I handed him the closed pot and he placed it on the tripod and I saw that it was a perfect fit. He struck the lighter again and proffered the flame towards me. I cupped my hands over his as I bent low to light the rollup and he followed suit a moment later.
The first puff of the tobacco was sweet, smoky heaven and we both inhaled deeply and sat quietly for a bit. The market had properly slowed down by now and we watched the few passing customers with shared interest.
The roar of the bunsen burner was the white noise to this little tableau while we smoked in silence and the water inside the bialetti started to heat up enough to be heard above the burner. The vanilla overhead, the jasmine behind me, the roses next to me, the rich aroma of the tobacco cascading over everything like heavy damask. An olfactory feast.
Reaching back into his trove under the main table he produced a pair of old enamel mugs and he rinsed these out quickly under the tap. He then produced a flask and a mismatched pair of orrante glass tumblers and proceeded to pour out what turned out to be very cold water. We crushed the ends of the rollups into the large upturned sea shell that also appeared from under the table. The old man magically wafted the ashtray away and the contents ended up in a small bin towards the right hand side of the main table.
The bialetti started to bubble and pop as he set the empty ashtray down on the table and in one movement, he reached over, turned off the burner and picked up the pot. He wafted the aroma close to his nose and then set the pot down directly on the table. A series of bialetti shaped scars on the table attested to this long suffering tradition and the old man’s remarkable judgement in landing the pot in a very compact area of the table.
He raised a glass of water in a toast and I said a heartfelt shukran for the coffee and his company.
More smiles and we drink. The water is biting cold and sweet and he tells me it’s from a natural spring outside town on a neighbour’s family farm and they get a few litres every time he comes back from a visit that way. It’s delicious. Shortly, the old man lifts the lid and the deep aroma of freshly brewed coffee climbs out and takes over the roses, the jasmine, the lingering tobacco and the vanilla.
It’s Antigua all right.
It’s bold and brassy at first and then smooths out to silky rich dark chocolate. He pours the coffee out and the light catching the stream as it comes out of the bialetti is what I imagine G-ds skin looks like. A symphony of amber, yellow and brown flecked with gold as the light catches here and there.
We sit still and then I offer another rollup.
It’s accepted and in return the flame is tendered again and in unison, we puff, pick up the mugs and sip. I look down at the table and notice that despite the cursory wipe down earlier, there’s a fine film of dust showing up in the afternoon light. I smile at myself and think, even here in a large modern North American city, I have been led to an old man drinking coffee at a dusty table.
I offer a silent shukran for the journey that always seems to bring me to exactly where I need to be.
Over the course of the afternoon and in a subsequent visit, The Poet sprouted a koan or three and those too will find their way to our eyes and minds at exactly the right time.
© Jesh Baker, 2022 AD
