All my life I'd wanted to go to the Dali museum in Figueroa. Dali and the other surrealist artists and writers of pre-World War II Europe had been one of the most significant influences of my teenage years. I felt that they'd opened my eyes to possibilities that most other people would never see. Some of my friends and certainly my family would probably call those distant writers, painters and poets bad influences.

For example, my father, if he were alive, would probably blame my later infatuation with the beats on the surrealists. He would probably recall with disapproval the evening of my 15th birthday when my boyfriend called at 10:00 p.m., excited after having seen Alan Ginsberg, and screamed "Send your orgasms to Reader's Digest!" into the phone before discovering who'd answered.

Even after I explained, my father didn't think much of the beats at that point, and if the surrealists were to blame for the beats, he didn't think much of them either. He also blamed the surrealists for my experimentation with drugs, although he didn't tell me this until long after the fact. I wasn't even aware he knew about the drugs until he warned me that our telephone was being tapped. He knew this because one of the men on his crew moonlighted for the police department and passed that information on to him. So the police knew about the Reader's Digest, Dali, and Eluard too.

I digress.

Here I am at 49, finally in Figueroa. It's February, but the air is warm and the sun is downright hot. No one here speaks much English, and I am not much good at Spanish. I know French and German, so I can make out a word here and there, but communication is awkward and frustrating. I get the feeling that some of them are laughing at me, but hey, it's their country, after all. I got an art magazine to partially subsidize my trip here by promising them an article on how the museum represented the man.

I got here last night, found a room and a cafe where I could get something to eat. It was a buffet of sorts, but all they seemed to have was appetizers. Still, I was hungry and what was there was tasty. I had a couple of glasses of wine and went back to my room to fall asleep.

Spaniards are noisy people. It was a warm evening, so I left my balcony doors open. People seemed to come and go all night, some of them seeming quite drunk as morning approached. I finally got to sleep around four, and it seemed like the sounds of people going off to work woke me up around six. I finally gave up around seven and got up to take a bath and get dressed.

I asked the desk clerk for directions to the museum, and found it without incident. I paid my entry fee and wandered through the halls, drinking in the exhibitss. Dali was a master, and despite the sometimes esoteric subject matter he presented, no one could fault his technique. I spent hours there, studying his paintings in minute detail.

I was sitting on a bench in front of "Exploding Raphaelesque Head," reveling in it, taking notes and examining every inch of the canvas, when an older man with a cane dropped onto the bench next to me and shook his head. He was muttering indecipherably. I turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.

"You're not a fan?" I asked with a smile, then remembered that I was in another country. But to my surprise, he responded.

"Not of this museum, signora," he said in a gravelly voice. "But of the man, yes."

I looked at him, not sure I understood what he was saying. "You *knew* Dali?" I asked.

He nodded. "We grew up together. And when he returned, we used to have dinner together once a week."

I didn't know what to say next. I had imagined over the years a thousand questions I would have asked Dali, and even though he was gone, I now had the chance to ask those questions of one of his intimates. But I couldn't remember a one of them. "You knew Dali," I repeated inanely.

The old man shrugged. "He was a man."

My mind raced. I'd read a number of Dali's books and essays, always trying to read between the lines to find some insight that might allow me to share his peculiar, but brilliant way of looking at the world. There was a window to Dali's world sitting right next to me, and I couldn't find a way to open it.

"I'm sorry, but you've surprised me," I said, trying to cover my stunned silence. "I've idolized Dali since I was young. I always thought that if could find a way to understand how he viewed things, I might be able to write something truly wonderful."

The old man chuckled and nodded. "He was a strange one, that's for sure. But a lot of it was for show."

"What was he like in private?" I asked, turning toward him. "What sorts of things did he talk to you about when you'd have dinner?"

"He'd gossip," the old man said slowly, "he'd tell me about his trips and where he was intending to go. He'd talk about money and gallery owners, and once in a while, he'd make fun of the people who collected his work." He was silent for a minute, then he continued.

"He was like anyone else. He loved his woman, he loved to eat, once in a while he drank too much wine. And draw ... he never went anywhere without a pencil and a pad of paper."

I thought about what he was saying. Here was a man who knew Dali and he was telling me that he was just an ordinary person with an act. But the work, the work said otherwise.

"But what about all of this?" I asked, waving my arm to indicate the museum. "You say he is 'just a man,' that he's an ordinary fellow. No ordinary fellow could have conceived this! He must have had such a rich imagination."

"No, not really," he agreed. "He did have terrible dreams. He'd talk about those, too. It was from the indigestion, I think. He was always eating beans."

"So his inspiration was a stomach ache? Dreams?" I felt a little shaky, as if one of the core tenets of my belief system was being disproved. "That's all?"

"Oh, he had some strange ones, that's for sure," the old man said, leaning forward on his cane. "But he'd use them. He'd describe them sometimes. All of this," he paused. It was his turn to wave his arm "this is just the tip of the iceberg. A sad imitation of what went on in his head." He sighed and rose. "Enjoy your stay here, signora. I am late for an appointment with a friend."

I watched him limp out of the museum, and suddenly, I knew what I wanted to ask him. I grabbed my notebook and knapsack and rushed out of the museum, and caught up with him down the street. "Excuse me," I asked him breathlessly, "but why did you come here? You said that you weren't a fan of the museum. You must have known that before today."

"Yes," he agreed, "I knew that. I come here every day at about this time. The curator is a friend of mine, so I don't have to pay. And although the works in the museum are a sad imitation of Dali, they were still a part of him. It helps me to remember him. And in the process, it helps me remember my life." He smiled at me and turned away. "I really must go now, signora. My friend will be wondering where I am," he called over his shoulder.

I looked after him until he was no longer visible. Cars and trucks rattled by, children teased each other as they ran down the street, busloads of tourists passed, destined for the museum. I wondered how I was going to be able to write about it now. What would I say, that Dali was just a man with heartburn? There had to be more to it than that.

I walked slowly back to the hotel, cursing myself for not finding out how I could get in touch with the old man, for not at least asking his name. But there was always tomorrow, and I knew where to find him.

— Props to the CHPercolator list for the prompt
January 28, 2001