Life in the hood
I took a walk to my village bakery this morning, in search of a couple of croissants. On route I passed one of my elderly neighbors stooped over a freshly dug mount of earth, poking at it with his cane. Numerous clucking hens gathered at his feet, scratching at the soil, ferreting for worms and grubs. One let out of whooping squawk and attacked something only she could see in the dirt, which caused the other hens to rush across in excited anticipation. Standing aside, regally surveying his kingdom was the blasted Rooster that insists sunrise is at 3am each day and whose announcement was immediately followed by a hundred baying dogs telling him to get back to bed.A little further down the road I strolled past a row of uniform semi-detached double-storey stone cottages. The date inscribed above the main archway told they had been built in 1820. Faded red doors and peeling shutters closed off any views from the curb. I wondered after the interior of the faceless buildings and imagined dank and oppressively gloomy rooms, filled with ghostly memories. I could not recall ever seeing any activity at these properties and decided they were probably vacant. Still pondering over this, the whir of an electric motor sounded, the peeling shuttered garage door encased in the archway grinded and shuddered into life. It slowly lifted revealing an immense cobbled courtyard with a bronze four-tier fountain in the centre. The quiet within allowed the light trickle of water to resound off the high walls. Stained glass windows, depicting biblical scenes, overlooked the courtyard on three sides. Several stable doors stood open, revealing the rooms beyond. The door that caught my gaze I presumed was the entrance hall. It had a crystal chandelier of such immense proportions it extended way beyond the door frame. Behind the chandelier was an ornately carved grand staircase which divided on the landing, beneath a stained glass image of ‘Madonna and Child’, then spiraled in opposite directions to the floor above. The roof above the staircase was a massive dome constructed of elaborate wrought iron and glass, illuminating the sumptuous room below.
An ancient tractor came into view and stuttered across the courtyard towards the exit then passed me. The old man at the wheel tipped his hat at me and proceeded down the road aided by a series of small explosions. The garage door jumped and wobbled back down, closing off the secret world that lay beyond.
And to think my job takes me around the world to find interesting places to write about!
I quietly contemplated the unconventional and somewhat secretive lives of my eccentric neighbours and started thinking how transparent we foreigners must appear to them. I’ve lived in this street for four years and I’m ashamed to say that I don’t even know who my neighbors are; perhaps its time I remedy this.
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