Reminiscing – Leaving Sam

Michael walks beside me as we follow a new route to Sam’s apartment.  Passing the Mercado, we stop to look up into the sky and take a picture of purple lace against solid blue.  The Jacaranda’s are still in bloom, and the tree at the beginning of Hombono is spectacular.  I position my camera in order to capture purple blooms and sky without all of the lines that crisscross in front of me. 

Keeping the camera in hand as we continue up Hombono, I click off pictures of buildings. The street. The cobblestones.  My shots are close up and distant.  I want to capture the essence of where I walked everyday for the past two and a half months.  Having decided it is time to leave Sam and finish my Greek ruin at home, I am distressed and feel like I am attending a funeral.

Finding Sam

Hombono is a sad little street.  It is two blocks long and goes straight up.  There is nothing here to attract tourists.  It is a street of desolation.  Of faded paint.  Cracked cement.  Broken dreams.  Aspirations.  It all depends on if you are young and just moving in, or past your prime and hoping to meet your bills each month. 

I first walked on Hombono the second day we were in San Miguel.  I wanted to find the place, not necessarily Sam’s studio, just the street.  Since it is tucked away and hidden, that first day we had many false starts.  And when we finally found it, I was uneasy about its appearance.  But I kept my appointment with Sam the next day at 2 p.m. anyway.

That Tuesday when we arrived at his address, I was dismayed to find that Hombono #28 was an apartment building, and the apartment buzzers were identified by numbers. No names.  I was expecting a sign—Sam Seaman, Artist—but the best clue I had was bell number eight, with the letters S-A-M scrawled next to it.  Ready to walk away, I pressed the button instead, and stood there waiting for the door to open. A voice above me called in an English accent, “Yes, can I help you?”

Squinting, shading my eyes against the sun with the back of my hand I looked up and saw the head of a man looking down from a balcony.  His skin was dark and weathered, his hair was a longish mass of tousled gray.  His appearance belied his accent.  “I’m looking for Sam Seaman,” I replied, “we have an appointment.”

Sam’s gray head disappeared for a moment than came back with something wadded up in his hand.  He stretched his arm out over the balcony, opened his hand and a small plastic parachute descended with a key dangling from a string below.  “Open the door and come up the stairs,” he instructed. 

Sam’s Studio

When the double doors were opened we found ourselves in a sort of carport garden area, with a steep, red cement stairway looming before us.  We climbed, turned right, crossed a small porch, entered through two worn wooden doors and found ourselves in a very bohemian artist’s studio.  Canvases were stacked two and three deep, there was a large work-bench filled with paints, brushes, rags and various other sundry items.  Paintings hung on walls.  A cot covered with an assortment of rugs was in the middle of the room.  A bar stood in a corner with bar stools in front.  We perched, and talked, and made a pact.  Teacher and student.

Endings

Today I do not ring the bell, I have my own key.  For the last time I insert it into the lock and turn the key to the left.  The door swings open and while we walk through I hear Sam’s voice crying, “Leave the door open.”  I think he is on the balcony, and I yell back, “Stay there…don’t leave.” 

Stepping I snap the picture that is so familiar to me, remembering it took Sam six weeks before he would give me a key. Turning, I see him running up the hill, arms full. Sam leaning over the balcony, parachute in hand, will exist only in my minds eye.

Sam doesn’t know I am here to pick up my picture and say goodbye.  I only made the decision last night, and I feel like a deserter.  A deserter that is sad to go.