Long-time visitors to the curio cabinet might be familiar with the deep conversations I’ve had with complete strangers. There was the widower we met on a trail in Sedona who broke down in grief and received a hug I offered.  There was the mom in Costco worried over her adolescent son’s obstinance and refusal to attend church with her. She and I were waiting for our tires to be repaired.  We spoke mom to mom. It felt good to connect and offer the understanding of having been in her shoes. Left unsaid was the reality that she and her son were black. Her worries were limned with a deep and not unfounded fear I never had to consider.

Two years ago Martin and I were in Granada when a smartly-dressed man walked past us and began making his way down this staircase.  I assumed his cane was the finishing touch to his suit and tie. Then I realized he was blind.  I watched him navigate to the bottom of the steps, then stop and shift his weight first in one direction and then in the other. Something moved me to direct him. Either he’d ignore me beccause this was a familiar route or I’d be a voice of guidance. Still at the top of the stairs, I could see what he could only discover by trial and error: the way to the left was a cul de sac of stone walls.

“Derecha,” I called out gently. “To the right.” I held my breath. The man paused and cocked his head. Turning to the right he moved forward.  Then an intersection. I reasoned that having taken the steps, he was headed downward away from the warren of homes white-plattered homes and shops. “Isquierda,” to the left. He turned left. It was electrifying to realize we were as if one being: my voice and his body. An elderly blind, Spanish man and an American tourist concerned for his safety. At the next corner there was only one way to go. “Todo derecho,” I called out. Straight ahead. He moved forward and disappeared from sight.

I love these moments the Fates send me. I haven’t thought of him since then. But something brought him back to me. And now to you.