The Fruit Shop Incident

On my way home from work I stop by to buy some fruit and vegetables just a couple of streets from where I live. A spacious but poorly lit shop, there are no customers as I meander through the tables of fruit laid out beautifully by the entrance.

"The plastic bags are just there on your left!" a voice shouts out from the back before I even get a chance to study the selection available. Slightly perturbed by the disturbance of my not-yet-started fruit-gazing, I nod with a smile and, as though to reassure the voice that I am grateful for the tip.

The voice emerges from the back, a 19-year-old boy pacing around the shop. He is about to strike up a conversation, but much to my relief, a Senegalese man enters and asks for bananas.

"The Spanish like bananas from the Canary Islands," the boy declares. The Senegalese man brushes away his unruly dreadlocks, unfazed by the bold comment.
"I don´t care whether they´re Spanish or Catalan or whatever," the man retorts, reaching for the other type of bananas.
"No, I don´t care either," responds the boy. "But the Spanish always buy the ones from the Canary Islands. I don´t know why. The Spanish always buy them." He belts out a forced laugh that is left to resound in the awkward silence.
"Let me get these," the Senegalese man says firmly and hands over the dangling fruit to the boy, who eagerly races to weigh them.

I decide to add a few cherries to my basket. The boy thanks his previous customer and then walks directly to me. "Are you from here?" he asks, staring shamelessly at me from the other side of the sea of cherries.
"No, I´m from Finland."
"Fin...where?"
"Finland. From Northern Europe."
"Finland. Yeah coz you don´t look like you´re from here."
I give him a weak smile and look intently at the cherries in the hope that the boy will leave me alone. But he is pacing around the cherries, waiting for me to continue the conversation.

He has an innocent face with a crooked nose, a matching crooked smile and eyes just a little too close to each other.

"What about you? Where are you from?" I don´t know what possessed me to ask him.
"Ecuador."
"Have you been in Barcelona for long?" It must be some kind of maternal instinct in me that blurts out the question.
"6 months."
Again, the forced, foolish laugh.
"Do you like it here?"
"I don´t care. I don´t want problems."
"Do you miss Ecuador?"
"Yes, very much." He looks away but the smile doesn´t leave his face.
"Is this shop run by your family?" I suddenly find myself in the middle of an interview.
"Yes. My parents came here four years ago. I miss my friends in Ecuador. How long have you been here for?"
"Almost two years," I say.
"Almost two years," he repeats.
"Yes."

I move on to the apples, the pears. I reach for some lettuce. The boy keeps pacing around the shop. I approach the counter and pull out my money.
"How is it?" the boy asks as he positions himself behind the counter and unloads my basket.
"I´m sorry?"
"How is it?"
"I don´t think I understand," I reply, slightly taken aback.
"What do you mean you don´t understand?" he laughs.
"I don´t understand your question. What do you mean?"
"How do you like it here?"
"Oh."
"How do you like it here?" he repeats.
"I like it. But I´m not from here. I will always be a foreigner here."
"What´s so bad about being a foreigner? - Do you prefer the bananas from the Canary Islands? Spanish people always go for the ones from the Canary Islands."
"Because of the name?"
"I don´t know. They always go for them. I don´t know the difference between the ones from the Canary Islands and the other ones. They´re all the same to me. Do you want some parsley?"
"No, thank you," I reply, getting slightly impatient by the speed at which the boy is weighing my purchases.
"Are you married or single?"
"That´s a bit of a direct question, don´t you think?" I laugh. My comment is ignored.
"Are you married or single?"
"I have a boyfriend."
"Oh, you have a boyfriend. Is he from where you are?"
"No, he´s Colombian. He´s your neighbour - doesn´t Ecuador share a border with Colombia?"
"We share a border with Peru. Peru is our neighbour."
"But don´t you share a border with Colombia?"
"Yeah, but Peru is our neighbour."

The boy finally weighs the bananas.
"So are you going to get married in Colombia?"
"Who knows. Maybe."
He laughs again, this time clearly amused by the thought.
"You´re going to get married in Colombia."
"Hmm."
"You´re going to get married in Colombia."
"And the cherries?" I point at the bag of pink that has been left on the counter.
"Oh, I forgot," he laughs and weighs them. I pay him.

The Senegalese man walks in.
"I had to get some ciggies," he says to the boy as he walks to the counter where I am putting my money away, ready to leave the shop. "Here´s the change I owe you."
The boy shares a foolish laugh with the Senegalese man. I shrink, walk away.

The conversation turns to bananas again.