Hey, it’s Summer, so I’m taking a break this month. Instead of sounding off on some subject, I’m just going to be lazy and post an exercise from this past Winter when an assignment required that I write 20 sentences using a comma, 20 sentences using a semicolon, and 20 sentences that needed neither. (Yeah, you read that right.) Believe me, I thought about just taking the “F” rather than putting myself through that drudgery, but decided to try to have some fun by making the sentences a very short story. So, here are sixty sentences about a fictional Summer vacation.

     The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain; I am staying in the mountains. To anyone who ever considers doing the same, I suggest the little town of La Paz. There is an inn here that even I can afford. When I first arrived, I walked around the town for two hours before wandering into Patricio’s place. I hadn’t eaten since early that morning; the aromas wafting from Patricio’s open doorway lured me in.

     Patricio calls his place “La Comida es Amor” (“Food is Love”). He said this is what his great-grandmother used to say to him when he stood next to her in her kitchen as a boy. When he speaks of this memory, the expression on his face is that of delighted child. This can be both comical and poignant to an observer; Patricio is eighty years old. His only help around the place is Luis. Luis is a local teenager who serves as the inn’s busboy and dishwasher.

     Despite his age, Patricio always seems full of vigor to me. He’s up by dawn every morning. The fuel burning in his stove is the wood he has chopped; the chicken stewing in the pot is one whose neck he has wrung. Most times, he is on his feet cooking throughout the day. Patricio also takes pleasure in serving his “guests,” a term he prefers rather than “customers.” He makes us diners feel like guests; it is not unusual for him to sit with one of us during the whole meal and regale us with tales of his youth.

     According to him, he was a rambunctious boy. Because of this, he was nicknamed Cabro. He says this is the reason goat is never on his menu. No one would ever miss it; Patricio prepares too many other delicious dishes. My favorite is his version of the regional paella which combines the usual ingredients with a type of mushroom found only in these mountains. Of course, it would take a while to list the many other pleasures consumed while sitting at one of Patricio’s tables.

     As if a man of his age hasn’t done enough during the day, Patricio can be found on the patio of his place well into the night. Tales of his youth are replaced with stories of love won and lost. Guests and neighbors sit around downing bottles of wine while listening to Patricio recount amorous affairs in his booming voice as recordings of Segovia play on an old turntable. He says there have been times when he has had to carry guests up to their rooms after a night of drinking with him. Patricio has what the old folk in my life call a hollow leg; he can down copious amounts of wine without the attendant effect. If anything, you might sometime be able detect a bit more joviality from a usually jolly man.

     Even when Patricio speaks of his beloved Alma, he does not become wistful. They were married for fifty years; she has been dead for ten. There is a part of the kitchen that feels almost like an altar in her memory. He credits her along with his great-grandmother as having the greatest influence on his culinary skills. He says it was love the first time Alma prepared a meal for him in her mother’s kitchen; he says he could taste the love.

     La Comida es Amor is more than a restaurant. As I said before, it is an inn. There are only five rooms upstairs; one is Patricio’s. Mine is across and down the small hallway from his. The one next to him is never occupied by guests; he keeps it readily available for visits from his son who lives in Barcelona. Once, I asked Luis how often Patricio’s son visits. He looked at me and shook his head; it was evident from his expression that he did not think the visits were often enough. Patricio’s son is named Henriquez; he always speaks of him with pride in his voice.

     My room has furniture that looks as if it has been here since before the days my father-in-law came to Spain from Boston to fight against the fascist forces of Francisco Franco during this country’s civil war. The furnishings don’t bother me; I like antiques. The inn sits on a hill in La Paz; the view from the window in my room looks down the main street of the town and right out over the wooded valley below. Through the hills above the town runs a mountain stream; Patricio says I must go fishing there before my departure. I tell him I will if he promises to cook what I catch.

     What draws me to La Paz is not the fish; I am drawn by its rich history. Although it is not widely known about this town, its history includes hundreds of years of Moorish culture. When the Christians recaptured this part of Spain, those early rulers tried to erase as much of that culture as possible. This proved to be an impossible task; centuries of a way of life are not easily erased. I suspect anyone who appreciates beauty could not look at the artistry of the Moorish architecture and then decide to destroy it without a care.  Thanks to those softened hearts, I can walk the streets of La Paz and feel the same awe as those who came upon these sights long ago.

     I know I will miss La Paz when I leave. No matter where I travel, I know I will not likely find in one place all that I’ve found here. I don’t know if I can explain why; I don’t think that is unusual. I’ve decided to take Patricio’s suggestion and go fishing in that stream; I think having him prepare a parting dish of food provided by me would be fitting. After all, it was the scent of his handiwork that captured me in the beginning. Even though it’s a Latin-American dish rather than Spanish, maybe I’ll ask him to make ceviche. Some historians say it may have originated in Spain; they say it may have been based in Moorish cuisine. I know Patricio will come up with some wonderful way to please; he always does. He believes food is love.