A Fruitful Morning

Satva is a Sanskrit word generally meaning truth or goodness. Now, the café at in Ajijic is called Savta, which I take to be a humorous misspelling. But down here South of the Border, who knows?

My friend Clarice and I recently convened at the café for tea and conversation. Clarice is from England, and due to the whole covid mess and resulting travel restrictions, I hadn´t seen her in at least two years. We seated ourselves in the bustling back patio at a table shaded by a large umbrella and lush papaya tree. Our ensuing conversation covered a wide range of spiritual matters and elements of personal growth. We even completed a spiritual exercise that Clarice had picked up in Costa Rica.

As our conversation drew to a close, we met eyes and wordlessly appreciated the rich communion we had just shared. But the loud crash that followed ruptured this intimate moment and left Clarice splattered with a juicy, bright orange mess. An overripe papaya had detached itself from the tree, crashed into our table´s umbrella and shattered onto the low ornamental wall alongside us. 

Patrons and staff rushed over to assist, wiping up slimy papaya remnants and ascertaining our wellbeing. “You certainly shouldn´t have to pay for anything!” announced a concerned customer.

At the cash register, our waiter ducked into the kitchen to check with the manager about cancelling our bill. He emerged a minute later and rushed off in a random direction. The young señorita at the cash register began to explain in English, her second language, how she was going to handle the bill. 

After her first phrase or so, it seemed clear she was still going to charge us, and here’s where things got dicey. I jumped the gun and lit into her, astounded that we would still be expected to cover the bill. 

“Please let me finish, sir.”

In fact, she wasn’t charging us. But I tell you, anyone would have interpreted her opening salvo as the precursor to an unfair billing. Clarice later agreed. But I was wrong and offered an apology. The señorita, slightly ruffled, handled it well. Clarice and I walked to the center of town and parted ways, first affirming our enjoyable interlude before chaos had ensued. I stood at the bus stop, ruminating on the morning’s events, and soon found myself walking back towards the café. I reiterated my apology to the young señorita and, satisfied of our mutual understanding, went on my way.

The moral of the story? The heck if I know, but certainly a morning I won’t soon forget.