It's a small town after all

My friend Hilary, who teaches English in Paris, is currently visiting me. Our worklives are similar, our homelives not. She has constant access to internet, constant access to English bookstores, constant access to foods from around the world. I: do not. I felt a little country-bumpkin as I eagerly pointed out the features of Arcos: "Here's the bakery--it's fantastic" (I bought a croissant; obviously biased, Hilary decided not to sample something her own town is renowned for, though I swear these croissants are just as good), "This is the main street...well, the street," "Here's the Italian restaurant. Italian! Can you believe it?" In truth, Arcos--at 30,000 residents--is not such a tiny town. And it has everything I need: organic vegetables, yoga, flamenco classes, a fantastic bakery and an adorable wireless cafe. Sometimes, though, it's small-town character is more obvious.

Hilary, Patra, and I had just exited the adorable wireless cafe en route to a flamenco class when we saw a familiar face: Antonio, our landlord. Although Antonio is a little crazy, spits on us unintentionally, is difficult to understand, and keeps asking about our marriage prospects (still thinking we're going to settle in Arcos indefinitely), we were glad to see him. Our shower hasn't been the most trustworthy when it comes to hot water, and we wanted to ask Antonio to check it out. After a few awkward minutes of spittle-filled communication, we reached an agreement about when Antonio would come by. We continued walking. To Patra and me, this sort of meeting is unsurprising, almost necessary for getting business done (we originally got our apartment by unintentionally running into Antonio's wife Angela in the street an hour after she'd shown it to us). To Hilary, the chance encounter was nothing short of extraordinary. "Wow," she said. "This really is a small town."