Do you Know the Muffin Man?

The muffin man? The muffin man! Do you know the muffin man, who lives in a small town in Spain?

I do not personally know the muffin man, but I have met him once.  For spring break, I went with my friend J to stay at his family's house in a small town in rural Zamora, Spain.  When  I say small town, I mean a town with a population  slightly larger than my graduating class in high school. Knowing I'm a city-slicker, J was concerned that I wouldn't enjoy my stay in a such tiny town surrounded by nature. I, on the other hand, was looking forward to relaxing in the country, taking walks and reading books.

The town

The first evening, we took a walk to the nearby train station and some of the surrounding countryside.  Looking at the fields and flowers was worth the freezing cold we had to deal with.

Don't worry. This section of track was no longer in use.

The next morning, as I was trying to force myself out of the warmth of the pile of blankets on my bed and into the cold air to start the day, I heard a long, low whistle. Knowing that we were relatively close to the train station I assumed that it was the morning train alerting us of its presence.  When my friend awoke, I excitedly told him that I could hear the train whistle.

"No, you didn't," he replied.

"Yes. Listen, there it is again."

"That's not the train," he said. "That's the baker."

"The baker?" I asked, unsure if he was telling the truth or just pulling my leg. "What, does the baker have an alarm that goes off that tells the town when there is fresh bread or something?"

"Not exactly. That's the sound of the car horn telling you that the baker has arrived in town with his van full of bread. If you want bread, you just go outside and buy it from him. Or, you can go to his house and buy the bread from there."

Now, the concept of buying bread from the van of a roving baker was completely foreign to me, but is an everyday occurrence in small Spanish towns, so you can imagine the look of both disbelief and enthusiasm that crossed my face at that point.  Excitedly, I asked if we could buy bread from the van at least once during our stay.  J smiled and said that if I wanted some, all I had to do was go outside and buy it.

For breakfast that morning, and for the next several mornings, we had some of the most delicious muffins I had ever eaten. With only one muffin remaining, I asked J where we could get more. He told me that if I wanted more, I could either go to the baker's house or wait for the van to come around the following day.  Despite the town having only two main streets, I knew that with my sense of direction I probably wouldn't be able to find the baker's house and make my way back to his house without losing a couple of hours, so I decided that waiting for the van was the best option.  Nervous about taking on this endeavor, I asked J where the van would be and at approximately what time it would arrive so I would be ready and we wouldn't have to go a day without the muffins.  He told me that the baker usually arrived before 11am and that I should first go left upon exiting the house and if he wasn't there, to go to the right.

The following morning, I woke up early to make sure that I didn't miss the arrival of the muffin man.  As I was getting dressed, I heard the sound of the car horn. I hastily threw on the rest of my clothes, grabbed my wallet and ran out the door. I looked to the left and there was no van. Then I looked to the right. Still no van. Worried that I may have missed the van and therefore my chance to eat more delicious muffins, I decided to walk a little further up the street to see if I could find it. When I reached the intersection at the end of the street and still didn't see the van, I felt a bit discouraged, so I decided to return home, grab my camera and take a walk around town.  Not wanting to go back down the same street because I didn't want the old man sitting outside to think I was stupid, I took a different route.  I just had to keep telling myself that if I turned left three more times, I would make it.

Upon arriving at the house, my friend asked where I had gone. I told him that I had gone to get muffins, but that I couldn't find the van. He laughed and told me that the baker was probably still a ways away and that I would know it when he arrived. I decided to chance it and go on with my walk as planned and hoped that I would find the muffin man while out exploring. As I left the house, I saw a white van parked up the street and suddenly heard a long, loud blast of a car horn.  One by one, the residents of the town began leaving their houses and walking towards the van. I joined the procession nervously. As the people were congregating around the van, I felt uncomfortable as I  could feel all of their eyes looking at the giant foreigner. Not only was I not from there, but I was dressed as a tourist with my university sweatshirt, backpack, and camera and I was at least a full head taller than everyone else.  Then, I asked for two bags of muffins, which seemed to surprise everyone, but especially the baker.  I quickly left and took my treasure to the house so I could get on with my exploration of the town.

Could I be more of a tourist?