Meeting Alberto

One evening, during my second week staying at the Oasis Hostel in Granada, Spain, a new roommate had arrived.

As I was sitting on the top bunk of my assigned bunkbed, I saw a mysterious older man who appeared homeless and unbathed. He had long brown dreads, a ripped white tank top, and cut-up jean shorts that were once pants. He looked like Tarzan in his sixties.

Usually, I would have introduced myself to a new roommate. But I regret admitting that I stereotyped this man due to his raggedy appearance and did not speak to him. Although we had become roommates, we maintained an uncomfortable silence throughout that first day.

On the second day he was there, I noticed red stains on the bathroom walls and countertops. It made me uncomfortable. I brushed my teeth, used the toilet, and showered, all while maintaining my distance from the stained surfaces.

On the morning of the third day, I spoke to him. We were alone in the communal bedroom. He was sitting on the lower bunk of his bunkbed, folding a pile of clothing. I broke the silence by saying, “Hey, what is your name?”

He turned around and said, “My name is Alberto. What is your name?”

“My name is Carlos. Where are you from?”

“I am from Bilbao. A city in Northern Spain.”

“Wow, you’ve come a long way.”

“Yes, I have, and I’ve done it all on foot.”

I gasped loudly and said, “That sounds tough!”

“Oh, it was.”

Alberto and I talked for 20 minutes about our hometowns. We had some small talk and parted ways. As I left the room, he said, “I’ll be outside later if you want to hang out.”

“Okay, I’ll see you then.” I closed the door and headed to the hostel kitchen to prepare breakfast.

That afternoon, I walked to the plaza by the hostel to find my new friend. I saw him crouched down on a step while smoking a cigarette. “Hello, Alberto!” I yelled.

He waved at me and said, “Come sit!” I walked toward him and sat down on the step.

I noticed a dim light from the sun dancing on a building corner. City birds flew from the ground to buildings and trees, escaping the stray cats that would trot near them.

It was cool in the shade. However, the ground was warm and rough. It was uncomfortable, though Alberto appeared relaxed. He mentioned he was on an adventure, traveling through Spain and Portugal.

“I came here to rest because I am injured,” he said. “I’ve been in the forest for 42 days. At first, I was going from town to town and visiting villages all over Spain. Then I found a river that I followed for a long while.”

“Days later I came upon an area by the river that was perfect for camping. I decided to tear up a portion of the wild plants to set up camp. I began clearing the land with my bare hands and a single wooden stick.”

“Hours passed as I intensely ripped up the vegetation. Suddenly, I noticed my body was bleeding all over due to the branches and thorns in the greenery. That is when I headed to Granada to heal and rest.”

He showed me several fresh scars on his hands and arms. Then Alberto said “The dirt was red by the river and it made the water red. Since I swam in the water and handled the soil with my hands, I had red clay all over my body and hair. It was embedded in my fingertips, and it made my hair red. I didn’t realize I had dirt everywhere until I tried to find a hostel to stay at.”

“Hostel managers all around town were rejecting me due to my appearance. At least, that was the case until I found this place. I begged the manager to take me in, and after some convincing, he finally agreed.”

At that moment, I realized why the bathroom was stained red. My perspective on Alberto quickly changed. It’s beautiful that he was one with the land, lost in nature, and possibly lost within himself.

“There were many struggles in my travels,” he said. “I began walking with a backpack full of books, clothing, shoes, a tent, food, and a guitar. Soon, I had to leave the books and guitar behind and focus on survival. The weight was too much for me to bear.”

He paused, stroked his hair, and strongly exhaled. In a delicate and sad tone, he said, “It was difficult for me to let go of my guitar. It was my only form of creative expression, and now I have nothing.”

Alberto was sentimental as he shared this anecdote with me. His voice was mumbly and cracky. His hands were restless. He looked at the distance, then faced me teary-eyed and said, “But I constantly remind myself that we carry the music inside of us. The guitar is a tool, but the music stays with us.”

There was a stroke of silence. This was not a common pursuit, for him to let go of his belongings and never look back. Furthermore, to leave your home for the unknown adventure with no expectations and no attachments.

“Well,” he continued. “That is in the past. Now I am in the present, here with you.” I laughed and nodded as I agreed with him.

“That is all you can do,” I said. “To focus on the present moment.”

“Yes, people often forget that.”

“What are your plans now?” I asked.

“I’m headed to Portugal. I have always wanted to visit that country.”

“What a coincidence,” I said. “I’m going there too.”

“That is wonderful, my friend. If we cross paths again, I will see you there. I am leaving early tomorrow morning on a bus headed to Malaga, and then I am going to Lisbon, Portugal.”

The rest of the conversation consisted of Alberto using Astrology to tell me my personality traits. He had all of the zodiac signs memorized, and he combined three zodiac signs based on the month, day, and year I was born to tell me exactly who I was. He correctly listed my passions, values, and insecurities.

I was shocked at his accuracy in describing me. Alberto was passionate, so I let him speak with minimal interruptions. His voice was raspy yet powerful. His gestures rhythmically matched his cadence, and he would point at me in an attempt for me to relate to his words. Out of the blue, he signaled to the sky with his cigarette and conveyed the connection of life on Earth.

I realized a long time had passed when I felt my butt cheeks sweating excessively. The shade had moved away, and we were under direct sunlight. I was so damp that I wet the floor at the square. My lower back was sore from sitting on the step. I had been leaning on my arms and hands for back support, and they were numb and marked from the concrete.

Once we finished talking, we said our goodbyes. Anytime I noticed Alberto walking around the hostel that night, we would acknowledge one another. The following morning, his bed was empty.

I felt a connection to him. He was sincere and grounded beyond comprehension. We were fortunate to cross paths in Granada and share that time. I am grateful to have met him. Sadly, I never saw him again.

At least now I can say I met Tarzan since that is way cooler than saying I spoke to a homeless man for three hours.

Although Alberto was not homeless because, to him, his home was wherever he was at that moment, that night it was Granada, the next day Malaga, and today, wherever he is, I know he feels at home.