Sick in Calahonda! Whether it was caused by food poisoning or sunstroke, I was too sick to post last night (Friday)... and it had been a very interesting day all around.
My father's friend, Paco Rosa, drove me to the Ciudad de la Justica in Malaga where the old books listing births, deaths and marriages reside. He completed the form with my genealogy information and we have an appointment on Monday, May 29, to look through the books. But, alas! Only one person is allowed into the research room. When Miguel Alba and I looked through all the books in Benegalbón, it was as if my fingers were walking through history, dust and smudged ink and I felt people prancing through the pages... And it was such a neat experience. But in Malaga? Nope. We decided that since he speaks Spanish, he's my "assistant" and I'll wait for him with fingers crossed. (No papers were found in Almogia from last week's request).
In order to begin looking through the books, a form is always required to list the ancestors plus their birth dates or the facility doesn't let you get past the door. This is an example of the form. The one I completed in Almogia was typed by the clerk, printed, he put his notary signature on it and I had to sign it. I signed my name with Ruiz to prove I was a descendant or I would not have been given the information.
The next stop yesterday (Friday) was the Parroquia de San Pablo. This is the church I thought sat in Campanillas, the village of my grandfather Bernardo Ruiz Romero. When I saw that church was Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Carmen, I knew information had been confused because my baptismal document clearly shows San Pablo. Paco drove us to the church through narrow streets and parked cars in a hodgepodge of slanted areas. People were crowded around the entrance and lined the sidewalk waiting to get in. When we arrived by foot after parking about ten blocks away, Paco grabbed my hand and pulled me to the front of the line. I tried to avert my eyes away from the people we passed by to avoid seeing their faces aghast with his rudeness. They thought we were cutting to the front of the line (and so did I) but he just wanted to ask the priest where we could find document information without losing me in the crowd. The offices were closed, so we walked to the other side of the church where a large square surrounded by flowers and benches invited people to meditate.
By then, it was lunch time. Paco drove toward the villages again and parked the car halfway on the sidewalk and halfway on the narrow street. He saw the look on my face and grinned. (I could never play poker since my face talks)
"This is ok here..." he said and got out of the car.
Then, he was walking down the street. I followed him past several brightly-colored shops, two bars with men sitting at tables with cigarettes hanging from their fingers or lips, beer on their tables --- all eyeing us walk down the street. Then, he turned around the corner (I was nearly trotting after him by now). He introduced me to the barman, Cristóbal, at the local bar in Huertacilla. Here, they both told me, my father (and brother Steven) had eaten many times.
Paco explained that my father drank anisette with water and kept tapping the edge of the white plate of olives in front of us. He said blanco over and over until I realized he was telling me when you mix anisette with water it turns white...
When my boquerones arrived, Paco saw me pick one up as if I was having English tea, finger in the air and munching as if it was a potato chip. His hand came up to admonish me, shaking his fingers and his head with a "no, no, no..." and he showed me how to eat it properly. Huh? I'd seen Steven eat them this way but I thought he was just playing around. No so. And I am in Spain, eating their food, so of course I followed Paco's instructions. These fried anchovies are delicious. I'd always shied away from anchovies on pizza but he said these anchovies are different and you can't find them this way in America. I will have to look around when I get home though...
THEN, there was the trunk. When we returned to the village so I could drive back to Calahonda, he invited me into his auto mechanic's shop. I knew he wanted to show me something but the Spanish didn't quite come through. When he pointed me toward an old trunk in the back corner, I knew it had been my father's. He'd been storing it all these years. He told me that when my father returned to America in the early 2000s he couldn't take it with him. Now, it is mine. (Maybe my brothers and I can each have it for a year at a time to share? (smile.) There are odds and ends inside with some papers that I will share with Rick and Steven. But now... I must find a way to get it home. The silver lining? I needed to buy a new piece of luggage because... and now I can just dump my extra things into the trunk. My hope is that on Monday when Paco drives me back to Malaga, the FedEx offices will ship it back to Arizona for me. Fingers crossed again.
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