Poetry Is the Singing

It is Saturday night, and I am feeling especially alone in this city full of families and friends and connections.

I like that Jorge, the man who sells scarves, stops to check on me and share snippets of news. Today, he tells of a bridge washed out near the coast and of highways blocked by trees felled in the storm. I offer that the storm’s name is Calvin. He repeats the name. Calveeeen into the breeze.

I like that the lady selling tablecloths shows me photos of her grandchildren and the way she calls me amiga as if we’ve known each other for years. We have.

I like that Max waves as I pass the cafe where he’s a waiter. I like that Pablo will play the game where I ask: what is the thing that–long description here, weird look from Pablo, revision of description with better detail, and then voila! an answer. Today, after several hilarious rounds, I learned drones are still called drones in Spanish. Though I am sure the spelling differs.

I like practicing English with César and Andres. I like that Mari asks for her coffee a different way each day. Today, she had an americano with milk. Thursday it was a cappuccino with cinnamon and sugar.

I like that I can come across a couple of tired musicians snoozing on the street and not worry about their safety.

Still I am feeling alone in the city this Saturday night. And then I see a group of six girls performing an impromptu choreographed dance show to Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean,” and I know, without hesitation, I am part of this grand, happy music video.