Pride   “We’re proud here — muy orgulloso.” At first I didn’t understand, just thought I did, each time they said so. Soon enough they burst into mocking smiles — “hombre, just kidding” is what I heard, what I meant to hear. But that day in Algeciras, we snared ourselves a table in that cafe near the water, near the ferry that would carry us to Africa. The place was packed with laughing soldiers bound for empire’s last bastions, for Ceuta, for Melilla, back from Easter with their mothers. It happened so fast: a middle-aged and overburdened waiter tripped on a luckless duffel bag, tried to save himself, fell amidst crashing plates, arose shining with tears, food, blood, pain, pride.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont June 2010