Saying Sorry in Seville
Unfortunately, my stay in Sevilla was a short day trip, arriving in the morning, leaving that very night at 7pm, since I had to meet someone in Madrid. Arriving at the station early, I went to the café for a quick snack. Sitting alone, I turned to my journal. The lined book was my most faithful traveling companion, in which every adventure, pain and laughter, could be recorded during coffee and sandwich breaks. I wrote even when there was nothing much to say, since this small lined book had an unimaginable power to serve also as a shield. When I’m writing, I feel invisible, since most people do not approach me.
Fifteen minutes before the scheduled departure time, I left the café for the train’s platform. To enter the train, everyone’s luggage was scanned, a heightened security measure due to a terrorist bomb incident in Madrid about a year prior. I proceeded through the queues, arrived at a window seat, and met the Spanish man in his sixties, who occupied the aisle seat next to mine. Gesturing to him that the window seat was mine, he let me through.
I sat down, opened my bag, did not see my journal, and panicked. I looked at my watch: 6:54pm, which meant I had six minutes before the train would leave. The café! I took my train ticket and said, “Con permiso (Excuse me)” to the Spanish man. Before he could even get up to let me pass, I had stepped over his legs and rushed for the nearest train exit. I passed the security checkpoints, waved my ticket, and yelled in English, “I forgot something, I’ll be right back.” The security guards understood from my urgency and signaled me through.
I sprinted all the way back to the café. The very waiter who served me held in his hands my journal. “Muchas gracias (thank you very much),” I said.
The clock read 6:56pm. Four minutes to get back. When I returned to the platform, a few passengers were slowly queuing to get on the train.
“It’s okay, deep breath now,” I said to myself, as I slowed down and walked.
Walking toward my train car, I had a big uncontrollable smile. Outside the train, my fellow passenger was waiting for my return. I thought, “How considerate of him! He must be holding up the train’s departure to make sure that I got back in time.”
We walked back to our seats. Then, with a very serious tone, he asked me, “Hablas español?”
“Un poco (a little),” I answered with slight fear. I really only know about 50 words in Spanish, not enough to have any sort of proper conversation.
With my answer, he started to speak to me. He pointed to his watch, indicating it was three minutes to 7pm. He went on and on, expressing some sort of discontentment. I had no clue what he was saying, but it was apparent that he was not happy. All I could gather was something about a problem and that the train was departing in three minutes.
“Obviously, I would have missed the train in three minutes,” I thought. But it didn’t seem like his concerns were for me. I thought that maybe he was trying to tell me that there would have been a problem if I hadn’t returned, since I would have lost my bags.
I pointed to my journal and said to him, “Muy importante (very important),” trying to explain to him that I wasn’t stupid and had calculated the risks before rushing out of the train. What people don’t understand is that this sole book with records of all my travels and memories was priceless. There was really nothing in my bags that I left on the train that could not be replaced. Come to think of it, the most important thing among my luggage was this very book. I didn’t understand why he’d be upset. After all, I returned in time!
“Sí, sí!” he replied. As he nodded, it occurred to me that the problem was not the journal. He was panicking because he thought that I had a bomb in my bag when I ran out. Me? A bomber? Come on.
Statistically, I don’t fit the profile of a bomber. How many Asian women, backpacker-type, have been arrested as “suspected bombers?” To his credit, he expressed that he did not think it was likely for me to harbor a bomb, but he also maintained that he could not possibly risk the lives of so many. If I had not returned in time, he would have had to notify the police.
My goodness, I almost gave the old man a heart attack. I apologized quickly, “Lo siento. Yo comprendo (I’m sorry, I understand).” He knew that I was sincere. Since youth allows one the privilege for making the gravest mistakes, and age teaches one to develop tolerance and understanding, the Spanish man, remembering both his youth and age, was forgiving of my actions.
No doubt, despite my apologies and his forgiveness, this incident left an air of tension between us. We sat in silence for half an hour until he noted that I was writing so quickly in my journal. He then asked if I was writing about what had just happened – the misunderstanding we had with each other.
“Sí,” I said to him.
He threw me a laugh, then apologized for what had happened. Perhaps he felt that he had given me the wrong impression of Spain. We conversed more, arduously with limited understanding of each other’s language, gesticulating as much as possible.
His name was Pedro, a retired veterinarian. He gave me his address and wanted a copy of my story when I finished writing it. I told him where else I had been.
“Solo (alone)?” he asked.
“Sí, sí, solo.”
“Que valiente (How very courageous)!” To him, traveling so far away from home alone was something he would not have dared to do in his early twenties.
Then, Pedro drew a map of Madrid and pointed out two train stations, Atocha and Chamartin. He indicated the location of his house, wanted to know where I was going, and offered to give me a lift if I was going his direction. For a man I almost “killed”, he was offering me a ride. What a country!
“Gracias,” I said. “Pero, no se donde está la casa de mi amiga (Thank you, but I don’t know where my friend’s house is).”
The real explanation was that, not only did I not know where to go, I was meeting my sister’s friend whom I had never met. I didn’t even have a map of Madrid. The only thing I had was the phone number of my sister’s friend. But I wasn’t about to explain all that.
Before we got to Madrid, Pedro called his son on his mobile phone. They spoke in Spanish, but I understood he was recounting the incident to his son. Then, he passed me his mobile phone, gesturing me to speak to his son.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hello, yes. My father wanted to tell you that he’s really sorry about the incident. He hoped that he did not give you a terrible impression of Spain.”
“No, please. I’m the one that should be sorry. It’s okay. Everything’s cool. Thank you so much,” I said. As always, my vocabulary had been reduced to only “cool” and “okay” to describe everything. Since “cool” is the adjective so widely patronized by youth, maybe my response was adequate. I gave the phone back to Pedro. They exchanged a few more words and then hung up.
When the train arrived in Madrid, we said our goodbyes. I headed toward the exit where I lost sight of Pedro in the crowd of people. The end of our meeting remained at its beginning, arrested in time and hidden in a little lined book.