Dear Graham,
Many years ago, my friend Laura gave me a beautiful little purse from Mexico. It is handmade from colorful striped woven cloth, with fifteen tiny native dolls stitched across the front in neat rows. Each doll has her own face, different headdress, colorful dress, and little stick arms. The purse is deeply charming. I love slipping my phone into it and walking along the beach or throwing it over my shoulder with a black dress and heading out to dinner.
Since moving to Pedasi, I have worn the purse almost every day. It is the perfect size for my phone and ideal for beach walks in a swimsuit and cover-up. Unfortunately, the sea has not been kind to it. Salt air, sand, and sun have taken their toll, and one day I noticed that one of the little doll’s heads had become detached from her body.
I was determined to find someone in town who could repair it.
My Spanish teacher referred me to Mildred, a seamstress with a small shop located, according to her directions, at “the second white house perpendicular to the above-ground water tank near the fire station.” She warned me that Mildred did not speak English. At the same time, Mayra apparently warned Mildred that I did not speak Spanish.
Mildred and I communicated through WhatsApp, with Google Translate bravely serving as interpreter. She typed directions in Spanish. I translated them into English. Then Tom and I set off in search of Mildred and her sewing shop.
We found the fire station easily enough. Finding the second white house perpendicular to the water tank was another matter entirely.
We drove around in circles for a while, and then it started to rain.
Mildred messaged that she was standing near the fire station under an umbrella in the middle of the road. Sure enough, we soon spotted a Panamanian woman standing in the road holding an umbrella.
“That must be Mildred,” I announced.
Tom pulled over. I jumped out and approached her.
“Hola. I am Nancy,” I said.
The woman smiled, nodded, and motioned for me to follow her.
At first, I tried to squeeze under her umbrella, but she seemed a little hesitant, so I fell in behind her. Assuming she was leading me to her shop, I waved Tom forward and followed obediently.
Up the hill we went. Then onto the busy main road.
Finally, she entered a grocery store.
Interesting, I thought.
She walked directly to the vegetable section, selected a long green pepper, two tomatoes, and an onion, and handed them to the grocer behind the meat counter, who bagged them for her.
Then she continued shopping.
Naturally, I continued following her.
I was a little puzzled as to why Mildred the seamstress had decided to do her grocery shopping before taking me to her shop to repair my purse, but I was committed to the process by then.
Just as she turned down another aisle, my phone buzzed.
It was Mildred.
Typing to me.
I looked at my phone.
I looked at the woman.
I looked back at my phone.
And suddenly it hit me.
The woman carrying the umbrella was not Mildred.
She was simply some unsuspecting Panamanian woman who had somehow agreed to let a strange American woman follow her through town and into the grocery store.
Mortified, I hurried back to the car, where it was still raining, and informed Tom that I had just spent the last fifteen minutes stalking the wrong woman.
Tom could not stop laughing.
Honestly, neither could I.
We drove back down the road, and there, beneath a bright yellow umbrella, stood the real Mildred—much younger than the woman I had been following. She was already laughing because I had been messaging her updates as the situation unfolded.
This time I followed the correct woman.
We were both laughing so hard by the time we reached her shop that it hardly mattered we didn’t share a language.
Mildred loved the little purse as much as I do. She carefully examined the detached doll and immediately began sewing. She reattached the doll’s head, fashioned a tiny shirt and belt from scraps of fabric, and even added new string arms. The repair was beautiful—better than I could have hoped.
When she finished, I felt as though I had not only rescued my beloved purse but also made a friend.
Mildred speaks Spanish. I speak English. Yet somehow, we understood one another perfectly. Perhaps it was our shared affection for the little doll. Perhaps it was because we were kindred spirits.
Mildred came to Pedasi from Colombia. I came to Pedasi from Colorado. And there we sat, connected by a tiny handmade doll that had traveled from Mexico by way of my friend Laura.
The purse now carries more than my phone. It carries a story: a gift from a friend, a journey across three countries, a mistaken pursuit through a grocery store in the rain, and a friendship stitched together one doll at a time.
Life is unexpectedly grand, Graham.
With Love,
CC
