kellycrull.com - expat life in Spain

Late Monday night I met a guy named Augustín. He was on our street asking for money.

It was coincidental because April and I and some of our friends had been talking that night about the people we all recognize on the street who ask for money.

Living in the city center, it’s an almost daily occurrence to have someone ask for money. It’s such a normal thing, yet no one seems to have figured out a way of handling the situation that they’re happy with.

Most of my friends, including myself, don’t give anything to the people asking for money. I suppose not giving anything is the easiest solution, but at least for me, it often leaves my conscience cluttered. I justify myself, usually saying something like I don’t want to give someone money if I don’t know how they’re going to use it. They could buy liquor or drugs and hurt themselves instead of using the money for something useful. But in the end, I don’t buy my own reasoning. The fact is I’m not helping the person, and actually I find myself either becoming more indifferent or even wishing the person wasn’t there on the streets asking for money–not because I wish they had a better life, but because they make me feel guilty, and I don’t want to feel guilty.

So Monday night I figured what have I got to lose. When Augustín asked me for money, I told him I didn’t want to give him money, but I had time to run down to the kebap shop on the corner and buy him something.

Augustín asked for money again, and I told him I would buy him food. He said he didn’t want a kebap because he had a wife, and she was hungry too. April asked where she was, and Augustín said she was down the street at Plaza de los Cubos.

April and I had no idea where to buy food at this time of night, so we asked Augustín. “You can buy food at VIPS,” he said, nodding his head emphatically. “There’s one at Plaza de los Cubos.” He looked down the street and jabbed a finger in that direction. “They have bread and sausage and juice. I can buy food at VIPS,” he said, emphasizing the “I” in “I can buy food at VIPS.”

“We would like to buy food for you at VIPS,” April said.

Augustín dropped his head, his heavy eyebrows pulled together over his nose, thinking. “No,” he said. Then he mumbled something about verguenza, something about feeling ashamed.

“But we would like to meet your wife,” April said.

Augustín was still looking down at the sidewalk, but I could see a smile slowly come across his face.

“You can meet my wife,” he said in a way that let us know a decision had been made. He looked at us, first at April, then at me. Then he was holding our wrists and kissing our hands. “Her name is Paloma,” he said. “We can go meet her now.” He was already walking down the street when he said, “We have a little cat too.”

We made it to Plaza de los Cubos. Augustín told us his story along the way. He and Paloma are Portuguese. They’ve been living in Madrid for a little over a year without work. On the days they come up with enough money to buy food and still have at least 6 euros left over, they use the money to stay in a Pensión for the night.

When we got to VIPS, Augustín didn’t want to go in to buy food with us. He still said he was too ashamed. But we got the food and gave it to him. We went looking for Paloma. We never did find her, but we told Augustín we would meet her next time.

Next time. I realized as we parted with Augustín that there would probably be a next time. He lives in the neighborhood. He’s our neighbor. We hadn’t just helped him out by buying some food, we had gotten to know him a little bit. We were in relationship with him and Paloma, even though we hadn’t even met her yet.

I don’t know where we’re headed now. It’s uncharted territory. “What do we do if we see them in Plaza tomorrow?” April asked me as we were walking back to our apartment. “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess we’ll treat them like normal people.”