The adventures of Mr. Clayton

The sidewalk area on many roads is not a public sidewalk per say, but more of an extension of the building in front of it. As most buildings in our neighborhood are connected within a block, the walkways are also connected. However, each building owner appears to have the privilege of selecting the materials to construct the walkway, and of choosing the height of said walkway. This makes for a rather hazardous walk, like walking across abutting mini-plateaus. This requires vigilance. However, because we are fairly new here, we are often looking at this or that, and can be lulled into a false sense of security by any unusually long stretch of consistent walkway. This can end in tears. And then I think to myself, how can I hope to be vigilant against the terrorists if I can’t even be vigilant about the ground beneath my feat? A side note, did you know you are at a much greater risk of foot injury when wearing flip-flops? It must be true. I saw it on TV. Knowing is half the battle.

I have a sneaking suspicion that I am like Mr. Bean here. I don’t speak the language well, so I don’t say much and make a lot of dumb faces. Also, I look somewhat different. I am a bit more stout than your average Colombian. Also, Colombian men do not tend to wear shorts or baseball caps, which I wear just about every day. So, I amble around the streets, looking like the square peg, smiling and nodding dumbly, or possibly saying “Good evening” in the afternoon.

And then there are silly situations I come across where I try to help others. Sometimes it comes off; when I picked up a woman’s hair clip or pointed out a few pesos a man had dropped. Other times it is awfully Mr. Beanesque. Today, for example, I was walking down the road on my way to the grocery store. I had just had a pleasant exchange with a man that wanted to sell me “big shrimp” (I declined, but it ended amiably enough), when a brillo-type pad fell at my feet (picture Mr. Bean). This was more of an industrial abrasive pad, I guess. I look up to see a young man looking down at me. We both looked at each other for a moment. The young man three stories up, so I wasn’t sure if I could get it back up to him.

He didn’t indicate that I should, but I picked it up and gave it a perfect toss, but alas, he fumbled it and back down it came. Like a good Mr. Bean, I picked it back up and gave it another toss, this one somewhat errant. Keep in mind, we are on a busy street and I have some onlookers now. Down the pad comes. A third time, I give it a mighty toss (it takes a lot of force to throw a brillo pad up three stories), and this time it is just out of reach. On its descent, the wind catches it and pulls it into the first floor balcony. The young man gives me a “that’s OK” wave off, but I’m sure he was thinking “why didn’t I just go down and get it? I’d be back up by now.”

As I walk away, I am struck by an odor. It is coming from my throwing hand. Now don’t get too worried. It wasn’t an unpleasant odor, but rather a familiar odor: pungent, yet somehow addicting, with a faint trace of petroleum. Walking down the street I must have smelled my hand about five times (Mr. Bean-style: wrinkling my nose as I take it in, a hint of investigative tension in my furrowed brow). And then I place it and a Prustian moment washes over me: it is chrome polish. I am transported to the first thaw of spring in years gone by, when I would pull out the cleaning supplies and give my motorcycle a good scrub, then shine it to a brilliant gleam (Again, see Mr. Bean: face turned to the sky with a faraway and wistful expression).

But I am pulled back to this world in one of those all-too-human moments, when the ground under my feet deceives me: the level drops a half-foot or so, and I am sent stumbling and flailing past a busy open-air restaurant of lunchers. I do not give them the satisfaction of looking back. And I carry on…