On the Square

There’s nothing more pleasant on a trip to Europe than to spend an hour or two in the afternoon or early evening sitting at a shaded table on the square or plaza or piazza or placa or platia, sipping a coffee or cappuccino or beer or wine or ouzo or whatever the local liquid pastime might be, watching the sun pass over the umbrella or through the leafed-out trees, the parade of always interesting people, the young boys kicking a soccer ball around or engaging in a water balloon fight, careful to keep away from the tables at the edge of the square, the beggars that bother but usually don’t press or linger, the accordion or guitar or saxophone or violin or flute player standing against a building opposite with a hat at his feet or roaming among the tables, immigrants with sheets spread out on the sidewalk with sunglasses or purses or fans or hats or jewelry for sale, constantly looking out for police on motorcycle or bike or horseback come to disperse but rarely arrest, the elderly man or woman, solitary, gray, dressed in black, moving carefully across the square, in short, halting steps, supported by the Sphinx’s cane, years beyond when they were sitting at these same tables, smoking Gitanes and sipping cava, laughing and making plans for the evening, just as we do.