Notes from the field I

-- Sólo en inglés.

SESSION 3

It is clear to me now that LH2* has at the least a slight form of depression. She spends the day sleeping, and her face shows concern. Sometimes she gets trapped in patterns of circular (obsessive?) thinking – talking – anxiously squeezing her hands. So far we have been going to her neighbourhood, interviewing her at a not-so-nice coffee shop that exists in her apartment building. It is run by immigrants and the patrons are mostly immigrants as well; the coffee is ok but the food is terrible. Last time C** complained about the food and LH2 mentioned she likes churros, so this time I decided to take her away from her neighbourhood and into the core of the white city to have some. We go to the coffee & churro shop Alhambra, in Plaza Bib-Rambla. It hits me that they do not know the city at all when I propose to meet in the Cathedral and none of them, neither C nor LH2, know what or where it is (for us locals that’s as close as it gets to the centre of the universe, that is why I proposed to meet there). In the end, I have to rescue them from the bus stop because they can’t find the cathedral: they are at its feet, but can’t see it. As we walk down the Zacatín (one of the main commercial streets of the city) C and LH2 point at the spots where they used to sell their merchandise illegally “until 2004, when the police turned nasty.” “Here I sold merchandise, and here, and there” LH2 points and laughs, moving her hands away from her body as if she would rather forget those good old times when she had the means to make a living. She took the wrong bus and walked 25 mins to the place where we met. Maybe it’s the walk, or the sun that shines in this beautiful Wednesday morning, or maybe she is feeling more comfortable telling me her life, but she looks animated and almost happy. The signs of wear in her face are not that noticeable today.

On the way to the coffee shop (3 minutes tops) we run into a Senegalese man that now works for the government and another one wearing elegant clothes that happen to pass by. I say “Salam Aliekum”, the men squint at me as if I couldn’t possibly have said that, and then they engage in this interesting ritual: one asks, two answer, one asks, two answer, they all talk loudly at the same time and laugh. One would say life treats them very well, but I know it’s just a formality: that’s the way you are supposed to behave when you find a Senegalese acquaintance (and then I wonder what we Spaniards must sound and look like to people who don’t speak the language when we find one another, with our ritual of kisses). Then we walk into the coffee shop and all (white, white) faces turn towards us: they are out of place and I am doing something wrong, those faces say, clear as the blue sky out there above the square. I knew it was going to happen, but figured that “we” need to get used to seeing black people in our “sacred” profane places and this is THE BEST churro place in town, so there, I want to treat these women to the really good stuff. Now, I fear they may kick us out, but the waiter is as nice as ever, and I am relieved. In the end they don’t like the churros (so why did they say it??) but we have a wonderful conversation & forget about the enquiring faces around us. Focusing the conversation on the differences between the migration of men and women (a question I had posed in an earlier interview, but had not sparked much debate) today opens Pandora’s box: oh, yeah. She’s got a few things to say about this.



* That is the pseudonim for the second women I have interviewed. This is the last session of a series of 3 interview sessions (5 hours total).
** My research assistant.