My Friend Félix

When I am depressed, I call Félix, my best friend. He doesn't listen to my rant or hold my tears; instead he says "Sal, sal a la calle! La vida te espera." which means 'Go outside - Life awaits you!'.

For Félix, everything is an adventure: we decide to hitch-hike one day from Barcelona, where we live, to Madrid. We have a late start, don't get to the highway entrance until 3 p.m. I am worried we'll be stranded in some empty town by nightfall, but Félix is smiling; he draws a happy face on our cardboard sign that says 'Madrid' in blue and red letters, holds it up towards the cars whizzing past, and starts dancing. There is no music, but to my slim dark-haired friend, that doesn't matter. Pretty soon I'm dancing too; I forget all about going to Madrid, we are laughing in the sunshine in the middle of the afternoon. Then a truck stops and we have our first ride.

Felix lives in an old rickety white-washed apartment right on Passeo de Gracia, a noisy street. Trucks and busses roar outside of his window, just a few feet below. But he sleeps through the night, wakes up happy, makes a strong cup of espresso on the old black stove and goes to the round table in the living room to start his day. On a little black typewriter, he translates instruction manuals from English to Spanish: manuals for washing machines, blenders or VCRs. They are all urgent, all need to be sent by courier today to the agency he works for. I translate too, and I'd be going crazy by now. But Felix just smiles and taps away at the black keys; he puts John Coltrane or Archie Shepp on the tape player, gets up once in a while to stretch and look at the traffic on the street below, then sits down gracefully and works some more.

At seven, we meet at the fountain for dinner. Félix gets there first, he comes smiling towards me in his pressed Levi jeans. He wears jeans or khakis and buttoned-down shirts, but walks like he's wearing a black tuxedo. With flip-flops.

We go to our favorite outdoor cafe that makes the best gazpacho. Gazpacho in Spain means fresh tomatoes, green peppers, cucumbers, garlic, olive oil, soaked day-old bread and a squirt of lemon juice blended at fast speed. They pour it into a clear glass or bowl, sprinkle the top with croutons, give you a spoon to eat it with. It is red heaven.

But we are not eating - we are laughing and I can barely catch my breath. Félix is telling me about the private school he went to, "We had to take naps every day. We learned how to dance, speak French, and peel an orange with a knife and fork." For dessert, he orders an orange, a knife and a fork, and shows me how to do it. He keeps the round fruit completely still and peels the entire thing in a few minutes, using just the utensils.
"My parents always say that sending us to that school was better than leaving us an inheritance. See- now I can mingle with rich people!".
We pay our bill, thank the waiter, and wander into the night.