Lightbulbs

We needed a light.

It was 9pm on a Wednesday night and the light in our (newly leased NY apartment) bedroom was out. The romance of reading by headlamp had passed – even though our air mattress resembled the comfort of most hostels we stayed at during our travels. We wanted to tuck into the sole pieces of furniture in our new apartment – an air mattress and two pillows - and read.

Ironically, changing a lightbulb in our new apartment is not easy. We were fortunate to find a beautiful brownstone walkthrough with ten foot tall ceilings and amazing natural light…during the daytime. Having retrieved a ladder from the landlord and laboriously unscrewing a complicated light fixture, we agreed I would go buy the lightbulbs. It was 9pm in New York – everything should be opened. Two blocks later, and the grocery store and Duane Reade were closed. Enter: our local bodega.

I walk into a male dominated bodega and hear the sounds of rapidly spoken Spanish – the kind of Spanish that leaves an English speaker marveling at how quickly a tongue can pronounce so many syllables. “Como puedo ayudarle mi AMOR….?” Boomed from the round, bald man behind the counter. (How can I help you my LOOOOOVE?” ) I smiled at him. “Lightbulbs”, I said.

Having understood his initial question, he was eager to hear where I had learned Spanish. I smiled again and told him in Nicaragua. He beamed back. He was from the Dominican but I somehow felt I had passed an important test. He pointed to the lightbulbs right before my eyes and we continued on a discussion about energy efficiency. He did not have any energy efficient lightbulbs in stock, but I should come back tomorrow where he also owns the $.99 store next door. He then introduced me to his son behind the counter and the combination of the personalities alone made me quite excited that our local bodega can fit so much personality. I soon shared that I am new to the neighborhood, 112th and Manhattan to be exact. His face lights up and he beckoned me a little closer as if about to share a deep secret with an intimate friend.
“You know that abandoned church on 111th and Manhattan – right across the street from you?”
“Yes”, I reply with a little trepidation.
“Well that’s my property, I am going to turn it into a sports bar. Soon. You just wait. A sportsbar right there!”
With teasing skepticism I reply, “Great. But are you going to serve Guinness?”
The look that followed was priceless. His eyes darkened and the first signs of seriousness crossed his face. In a Bollywood meets Latin America type of way, he soon looked like I had offended his deepest sensibilities. “Guiness?” He shook his head, dismayed that I did not already know. “Of course, Guinness. That is my favorite.”
As he finished speaking, he grabbed my hand and escorted me to the beer aisle of the bodega. He extracted a bottle of Guinness from the fridge and, as if we had been friends forever, suggested we split it. Right there. In the aisle. I politely declined and he smiled as if that was also the right answer. So instead he slipped a cold Guinness into my purse. I asked in Spanish, “A little gift from the neighborhood?” He assured me it was and that I would be welcome in Ricki’s shop anytime.

I left the bodega with light steps, returning to Paul with a story and a Guinness…but no lightbulbs. I love our new neighborhood!